


Sweet Will Be The Flower

by anotetofollow



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: ALL THE GOOD STUFF, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Aristocracy, Ballroom Dancing, Banter, Class Differences, Clergy, Complete, F/M, Forbidden Love, Idiots in Love, Language of Flowers, Mutual Pining, Regency, Regency Romance, Slow Burn, This Is For You, are you missing bridgerton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:47:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 72,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29296866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anotetofollow/pseuds/anotetofollow
Summary: Lady Tanith Lavellan has been given an ultimatum; she must change her behaviour, mend her reputation, and marry well, else be disinherited from her estate and title.Forming an acquaintance with the parish's new vicar, she believes, will help her to appear more respectable. However, she is not prepared for how swiftly that acquaintance will become something more.[slow burn regency-era romance, daily updates]
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Inquisitor, Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Female Lavellan, Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Lavellan, Blackwall/Female Inquisitor
Comments: 32
Kudos: 32





	1. Crocus

**Author's Note:**

> new year, new lockdown, same brain worms
> 
> any historical inaccuracies were either intentional or they weren't, but just go ahead and assume it was the former
> 
> updates will be posted daily so please subscribe if you want to read more! <3

It was a fine morning; in fact, the first truly fine morning of the season. The previous winter had been a vicious, miserable thing. Weeks of lashing sleet showers and cold nights that turned the streets to black ice, followed by short, dark days that left all imprisoned in their homes. But spring was upon the land now, pushing up new shoots through the damp soil and filling the air with its balmy warmth. Crocuses speckled the roadside, their royal purple and butter yellow cheerful against the battered grass. Finches sang in the hedgerows, heralding the new day.

Tanith paid no attention to any of it. Her countenance was as stormy as the skies had been in the prior months, her hands clenched to fists at her sides as she walked the two miles to Atterwick House. She had left Clara, her maid, behind when she left home, despite the young woman’s nervous protestations, and if any in the village marked this and thought it odd they hid their gazes well. Tanith had no desire to make this walk in company. She needed a few moments alone, to feel her muscles burning as she strode up the hill, to fill her lungs with clean air and expel her anger with each outward breath. He had gone too far, this time. Much too far.

The Adlers’ butler, Parker, answered the door only a moment after Tanith knocked. His bushy eyebrows raised just a tad upon seeing her so unaccompanied, but within a moment he had regained his composure.

“Lady Lavellan,” he said. “We were not expecting you.”

“I had not expected to come,” she said, forcing a polite smile onto her face. “Is Tevi at home?”

“Miss Adler is in the morning room,” he said. “Shall I—”

“No need.” Tanith stepped neatly past him. “I can see myself in.”

After almost a decade of frequent visits, Tanith knew Atterwick almost as well as her own estate. It was smaller than Thornford Hall, a little shabbier around the edges, but she had an affection for the place that her home could not parallel. There was a sense of life there, despite the old-fashioned decoration, with the sound of voices and music forever filling the corridors. The Adlers were a large family, as these things went, far different from Tanith’s own. She and her father rattled around the vast rooms of Thornford like peas in a barrel, and not even the omnipresent servants could make the place feel less empty. On many occasions Tanith had suggested that they close off some of the wings, perhaps redecorate to make the estate more cheerful, but every time her father had declined. She could do what she liked when she inherited, he told her.

_When_ she inherited. _If_.

Tanith found Tevi alone in the morning room. Her friend was sitting on a low couch, working on some complicated piece of embroidery that made Tanith’s head hurt just to look at it. Tevi set down her hoop and needle when she saw Tanith enter, her dark brows knitting into a frown.

“Are you alright?” she asked. “You look awful.”

“Thank you, Tevi,” Tanith said, sweeping into the room. “You always know how to make me feel better.”

Despite their longstanding friendship, the two women were as unalike as it was possible to be. Tevi Adler was statuesque where Tanith was small, her features strong where Tanith’s were soft. Tanith relished the social events afforded to one of her station, while Tevi merely tolerated them. These differences had never prevented them from enjoying one another’s company, however. When Tanith and her father had returned to Derbyshire from London Tevi had been the first to call on them, bringing gifts from her family, and they had been friends ever since. Anyone who found the pairing unusual was simply not looking closely enough.

“Shall I ring for tea?” Tevi asked. “Something to eat?”

Tanith waved her hand dismissively, then collapsed into an armchair. “Whatever you wish. I have no appetite.”

Tevi gave her a sideways look, then sent for refreshments anyway. “Will you tell me what’s bothering you, or do I have to guess?”

“Father summoned me to his study this morning,” Tanith said, lips twisting sourly at the memory. “He said we needed to have ‘a frank discussion about my behaviour’.”

“Oh dear,” Tevi said, clearly fighting back a smile. “That doesn’t sound promising.”

“It was not.” Tanith fidgeted with the fringe on her shawl. “He believes I have been courting scandal.”

A heartbeat’s length of silence. “Have you not?”

“That is beside the point,” Tanith sighed. “He is blowing everything out of proportion, as always. To hear him talk you would think I had been intimate with every man in the county.”

As much as it pained Tanith to admit it, Tevi did have a point. Tanith had never held with the expectation that a young lady of her class should be shy and retiring. She had little but contempt for those tittering, simpering young misses who hid behind their fans, waiting for those they desired to approach them. Tanith thought nothing of extending an invitation to a gentleman, nor of leaving every ball with a full dance card. Such pleasures were made available to her, after all. She could see no benefit in denying them.

(In fact, there had been other indiscretions, ones which would send her father into a fit of apoplexy were he ever to hear of them. Nico was always happy to turn a blind eye when required; an admirable trait in a chaperone. But the Marquess Lavellan knew nothing of these occasions. Tanith had always taken pains to be discreet.)

“I’m sure he’s just concerned for you, Tan,” Tevi said. “It is his job as your father, I suppose.”

Tanith scowled at the floor, as though the carpet had done her a great insult. “He is more than concerned, Tevi. He is threatening to cut me off.”

Her friend’s eyebrows shot up. “He isn’t.”

“He is,” Tanith said. “Oh I will not be destitute, he assures me. His generosity will extend to an _allowance_. But he has promised that if I do not marry a gentleman of his liking, and soon, then Thornford will be forfeit. It will go to my cousin James, and his appropriate little wife.”

“Surely he can’t mean that?” Tevi asked, shifting to the edge of the couch. “He cannot be serious.”

“When have you known my father not to be serious, Tevi? He means every word.”

The tea arrived then, and despite her protestations Tanith polished off a cup and several small cakes before continuing her story. Once the food was in front of her she discovered that she was rather hungry after all.

“What are you going to do?” Tevi asked, dabbing crumbs from her lips with a handkerchief. “Will you marry, then?”

“I most certainly will not,” Tanith said. “I don’t see why I should force myself into matrimony simply to placate my father.”

“But to lose your title, Tan. Your home—”

“Oh I know, I know.” Tanith sank back into the armchair. “But father will not hear reason. He has a scheme, of course, to make me appear more eligible. More _respectable_.”

“Which is?”

“You know that Mr Arbuthnot passed away over the winter, of course?”

Tevi nodded. The elderly vicar had been a fixture of the village since long before Tanith had arrived and, Tevi had informed her, long before either of them were born.

“Father has found someone to take over Mr Arbuthnot’s livings. Some acquaintance of his from the army, if you can believe it. It is father’s intention that I should be the one to welcome the new vicar into the parish. Take tea with him, go to services, all of that nonsense. He fancies that I shall improve my reputation by appearing _pious_ and _dutiful_. Oh, Tevi, it’s such rot I can barely stand it!”

“That doesn’t sound so awful,” Tevi said, her voice a little strained. “All you have to do is spend a little time with him, make a few appearances in church. I’m sure you can manage that.”

“I’m not certain I like the sound of this man either,” Tanith said. “Father skirted around it when I asked, but I’m certain this friend of his has no family to speak of. He sounds more like a common soldier than a vicar. _And_ he’s unmarried— doesn’t that strike you as a little off, for a clergyman?”

“Aren’t you being slightly hypocritical?”

“I am not a man of the cloth,” Tanith said, irritated. “Whose side are you on, anyway?”

Tevi sighed, pushing a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Perhaps your father will change his mind on the marriage business. He may soften if you do as he asks this time.”

“I doubt it,” Tanith sighed. “He is quite set on the matter. It is such an _old fashioned_ mode of thinking, is it not? The Duke of Havershire is a bachelorette, and she does rather well for herself.”

“Ah. Yes.” Tevi cleared her throat, her eyes darting about the room. “I imagine she does.”

“But father wouldn’t have any of it,” Tanith said. “He told me that while the Duke may have great land and title, she lacks the character befitting her station. The woman has _ten thousand_ a year, for God’s sake! You can _buy_ character with that sort of money.”

“Quite.”

Tanith narrowed her eyes at Tevi, noting for the first time how her friend shifted in her seat, hands fluttering like birds in her lap. Unusually tense, it seemed.

“Her Grace’s family have land nearby, do they not?” Tanith asked. “Do you know her?”

“What? Oh.” A noticeable blush crept up Tevi’s throat. “A little. When we were children. She lived with her aunt and uncle, over at Stanwood Abbey. Moved away a long time ago, of course. Before you…” She trailed off, shaking her head as though dazed.

“My word,” Tanith breathed. She leaned forward in her chair, suddenly interested. “You actually _knew_ her? The woman’s a living legend. Is she really as much of a rake as they say?”

“Well she wasn’t at fourteen, Tanith, no,” Tevi said, exasperated. “I haven’t seen her in years. I have no idea what she’s like, these days.”

“So you haven’t kept in touch, then?”

Tevi hesitated for a second too long. “We write. Sometimes.”

“ _Tevi_ ,” Tanith hissed, her eyes going very wide. “You’ve been keeping correspondence with the _Duke of Havershire_ and you never thought to tell me?”

“It never seemed important!” Tevi protested. “It’s just a habit leftover from when we were young, that’s all. I’m hardly in her confidences.”

“That’s a shame,” Tanith said. “You could have asked her advice on my situation. I’m sure she has all sorts of convincing arguments as to why a woman should remain a bachelorette _and_ keep her lands.”

“I’m sure she does,” Tevi said, the corner of her mouth quirking upwards. “And I’m sure none of them would impress your father.”

“True.” Tanith scowled, then picked up another little cake and popped it into her mouth. She chewed thoughtfully, the toe of her slipper tapping against the floor. “What am I to do? I cannot marry. Nor can I stomach Thornford going to _James_ , of all people.”

“Give your father time,” Tevi said. “And perhaps… you won’t appreciate my saying so, Tan, but perhaps you could stand to behave a _little_ better. At least in public. Have tea with the vicar, be a little less bold with your gentlemen. Maybe your father will change his mind if you mend your reputation.”

Tanith glared at her, though not with any particular malice. “You are correct,” she said. “I don’t appreciate your saying so. Even less, knowing that you’re right.”

Tevi shrugged. “I apologise. Next time I will endeavour to be wrong.”

“Oh, I don’t want to talk about this any more,” Tanith said. “It’s a fine day outside. Shall we take a turn around the village?”

“That sounds like a much better plan,” Tevi said. “Shall I see if David’s free?”

“Yes, do. Thank you, Tevi.”

“You’re welcome, of course.”

Tanith remained in the morning room while Tevi went in search of her brother. A thing so simple as a walk down to the lake, with her friends whom she loved; that would be stolen from her, were she to marry. No more evenings of dancing, no more travelling to London for the season, no more flirting with gentlemen in secluded corners. These were the pleasures which her elders once encouraged her to indulge in; when she first came out she was _expected_ to do these things.

It seemed cruel, to have marriage be the goal of such pursuits; as soon as one achieved it, all of the other delights were suddenly denied to you. Overnight you were forced to give up the very activities that once made you desirable.

A foolish way of doing things, Tanith thought, and one she would not fall prey to. No matter what her father wished.


	2. Oleander

“You’re fidgeting,” Lord Lavellan said. “Stop it.”

“I am not _fidgeting_ ,” Tanith said. “I cannot get comfortable in these beastly chairs. Honestly, how do you stand it?”

“They are not for standing, Tanith, they are for sitting. Is half an hour of decorum so much to ask?”

Tanith rolled her eyes. “Very well. But that is all. The haberdashery should have the ribbons I ordered in today, and I want to go and see them.” Speaking of anything so mysterious and girlish as fashion was always a sure way to quiet her father.

“You may do as you please this afternoon,” he said. “ _If_ you manage to purport yourself well this morning.”

“I am not a child, father.”

“No, you are not,” he said sharply. “But you are _my_ child, and while you are under my roof you will do as I ask of you.”

Tanith sighed, picking up her needlepoint from where she had abandoned it on an end table. She worked at it listlessly for a while, trying to resist the urge to squirm in her chair. Her father’s library was a room she rarely frequented — Lord Lavellan did not, as a rule, receive visitors — and she found the place horribly unwelcoming. The morning light was harsh here, unsoftened by net across the windows, and the high ceilings gave the room an empty, austere feeling. Her own callers she met in the drawing room, where Tanith could still see the legacy of her mother in the furnishings. It was in the tasteful paper on the walls, the soft cushions that lined each couch and chair, the vases forever full of flowers. The Marchioness Lavellan had always loved beautiful things.

Her widower, however, was less concerned with ornamentation. Even his clothing was dull; well-made, of course, and expensive, but undeniably dull. His coat and breeches were a charcoal grey, his collar starched to within an inch of its life. Tanith supposed that she should be grateful he wasn’t still wearing his peruke. That was one anachronism, at least, that she had banished from his person.

Tanith herself wore a muslin dress the colour of a duck’s egg, one she was sure was at risk of being marred by the amount of dust in the room. Clara had pinned her curls back into a neat chignon, though rather too tightly. She had to fight the urge to tug at the pins, and instead settled for jabbing angrily at her fancywork. Her father shot an irritated glance at her, but said nothing.

What right did he have to be annoyed? Tanith had agreed to attend this morning’s visit only for his sake. She had no particular desire to ingratiate with herself with the new vicar, nor to sit in this dusty room while the weather was so clement. Instead she would have preferred to read in the gardens, to walk by the lake with a caller, to sit on her balcony and watch the village going about its business in the valley below. But she had sacrificed those pleasures, all for her father’s benefit. Still he did not seem pleased with her.

A moment later a footman arrived in the room to announce their guest, and Tanith followed Lord Lavellan’s suit as he rose to his feet. Just half an hour, she told herself. That was all.

She relaxed when William showed their visitor into the room. Not the new vicar at all, only one of the village farmers seeking an audience at an inopportune time. She returned to her chair and picked up her needlework again, waiting for her father to show the man away.

So it came as some surprise when Lord Lavellan stepped forward and clasped the visitor’s hand, welcoming him into the room. She froze, realising her mistake, but by then it was too late. Her father had already turned around to find her sitting, and she saw the way his nostrils flared at her impertinence. Tanith hurried to set down her embroidery hoop and spring back to her feet, but the damage was done. She was certain to receive an earful once the vicar had departed.

“Mr Blackwall,” Lord Lavellan said, plastering a smile over his vexation. “May I introduce my daughter, Tanith.”

Tanith dropped into a stiff little curtsey, unsure how best to proceed now that she had given such offence. “A pleasure to meet you.”

The new vicar blinked twice, then nodded. “Likewise.”

Well, with manners like that it was no surprise she had mistaken him for a farmer. Mr Blackwall did certainly not look like a member of the clergy, and nor did he behave like one. Tanith had never seen a man with a less clerical air. He was too tall, for a start, too broad, his skin too tanned; Tanith fancied that vicars should be small, studious men, made pale by their many hours indoors reading scripture. He wore no Geneva bands, and the fabric of his coat was worn thin at the elbows. While he did not appear young, precisely — his dark hair and beard were shot through with grey — he was still younger than Tanith’s father, which seemed singularly unsuitable. Oh there were young men in the church, of course, but they were never given their own livings. Her father’s decision to employ a man such as this was entirely lost on her.

After their awkward introduction was complete Tanith sat down again, feeling like a fool. She resumed her needlework, grateful for something to keep her hands occupied. Whatever pattern she was supposed to be sewing was long forgotten; seashells, perhaps, or roses, though the lopsided shapes currently resembled nothing so much as squashed flies. But still, all she had to do was give the appearance of being engrossed in her work. The outcome mattered not at all. It was simply an excuse not to converse with her father’s odd new employee.

She listened, though. Tanith had become an adept eavesdropper in the course of her life, and while she made her sloppy stitches she listened in on her father’s conversation with Mr Blackwall. It was predictably dull, for the most part; polite platitudes and enquiries about each others’ health, the state of the roads, the fine weather. They updated one another on the wellbeing of men whose names Tanith did not know — men they had served with, she imagined — and Lord Lavellan enquired whether the vicar had found his lodgings to his liking.

“Yes, my Lord,” Mr Blackwall said. “Very much so.”

His accent was similar to that of the villagers, though not identical. Yorkshire, perhaps. Wherever he was from, he certainly did not sound like a gentleman. Perhaps his family was the mercantile type, the kind who had made a fortune in manufacturing and bought themselves a modest peerage. For the hundredth time Tanith wondered what her father was thinking, granting livings to a man of such low birth. At first she had thought they must be good friends, but her father did not invite Mr Blackwall to address him by his Christian name. As old fashioned as her father was, Tanith could not imagine that he would be so formal with a close acquaintance. Why, then? Why give the parish to this man, of all men?

Lord Lavellan spoke her name then, drawing her attention away from her idle musings. She looked up at him, smiling politely as she set her needlework in her lap.

“Yes, father?”

“Nico will be paying a call on Mr Blackwall tomorrow,” he said. “I’m sure you would be delighted to accompany him, and ensure the reverend is settling into the village.”

And so it began. Already he expected her to—

“That won’t be necessary,” Mr Blackwall said, cutting her silent protest short. Perhaps realising his rudeness, he cleared his throat and added, “I’m certain Lady Lavellan has more important demands on her time.”

Tanith wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or offended. Perhaps the man simply did not understand that his words could be taken as a slight. Regardless, if he was as reluctant to keep her company as she was his, Tanith was prepared to overlook it.

Her father, however, was not.

“Nonsense,” he said. “Tanith would be delighted. She has spoken often of her desire to become more involved in church life. Have you not, my dear?”  
Tanith forced a rictus of a smile onto her face. “Yes, father,” she said. “I must have done, for you to recall it so clearly.”

“Tanith is a very accomplished young woman,” Lord Lavellan continued. “She paints, plays the pianoforte.” He did not mention that she did both of these things terribly. “I am certain there will be plenty of good works to engage her.”

“I’m sure you’re right, my Lord.”

Mr Blackwall looked distinctly uncomfortable. His hands were clasped in his lap, fingers laced tight as though he did not know what else to do with them. Tanith could make out pale scars on the backs of his hands, thin as papercuts. She felt rather sorry for him, really. Clearly he was ill at ease here, in the grand chambers of Thornford Hall. It was likely not the sort of environment he was accustomed to.

The visit lasted perhaps twenty minutes in total. Tanith said nothing more, only sat and listened as she sewed. Nothing more of interest was mentioned. When Lord Lavellan said that he was sure Mr Blackwall had plenty to do, and they would not keep him any longer, the relief in the vicar’s face was palpable. He departed in a close to a hurry as he could without appearing rude, remaining only long enough for Tanith to bid him a polite farewell.

“Could you not have made more of an effort?” Lord Lavellan sighed once their visitor had departed. “The man has travelled a long way to take this post. You could have at least _attempted_ to welcome him.”

“What could I have possibly said?” Tanith asked. “You cannot imagine that he and I have anything in common. I am sure my company will be a burden to him, father. Let it be.”

“ _No_ ,” he said, and there was a finality in his voice that Tanith knew well. “I have told you what you must do, and you will do it. Perhaps some time in church will teach you a little humility. A little refinement.”

“Perhaps it will teach me the art of sleeping with my eyes open,” Tanith said. “I suppose we will have to wait and see. May I go now, father?”

He waved her away, clearly tired of their worn-out argument. She was as exhausted with it herself, and left the library swiftly. Her father was a stubborn man, as hard-headed and immovable as an ox, and Tanith knew that further pleading would get her nowhere. For now she must simply do as he asked of her; make her polite visits, be seen in church on Sundays, give the outward appearance of respectability. For now. For as long as it took for his resolve to wane, and for her to secure her inheritance once again. Not a day longer. Until then, she could maintain the charade.


	3. Petunia

Tanith found Nico in the gardens. He often walked there after breakfast to, so he claimed, banish the morning’s torpor. Tanith knew that it had more to do with his desire to smoke the thin cigars of which her father so disapproved, in private and away from the Marquess’s criticism. This morning Nico was wandering in slow circles around the fountain, eyes narrowed against the morning sun and smoke curling from between his lips.

“Good morning,” he called when he saw Tanith approaching. “Early, is it? I hadn’t realised you were so keen to make this visit.” He grinned at her, flashing his teeth.

“Oh, do be quiet.” Tanith glanced around to ensure they were alone, then plucked the cigar from Nico’s fingertips and took a slow drag. The tobacco left her feeling pleasantly dizzy, and a little more able to take on the day.

“Shall we go now?” Nico asked. “Don’t want to keep the vicar waiting, do we, Tan? Lord Lavellan tells me you’ve just been  _ dying _ to ingratiate yourself into church life.”

She swatted at him. “Heavens, not you too. If father continues spreading this around people will start waving me off to the nunnery.”

“I suppose that wouldn’t be so terrible,” Nico said, taking back his cigar. “Nice and quiet. Never have to worry about what to wear to dinner. Sounds rather idyllic, really.”

“You go off to the convent then,” Tanith snapped. “Shave your whiskers, see if they’ll have you.”

“I’m afraid the habit wouldn’t flatter me.” He dropped the butt of his cigar and ground it out on the path. “Come on then. Let’s get this over with.”

Nico held a curious place in their household. The circumstances of his birth were shrouded in mystery, a secret that the Marquess kept to himself. Some in the ton believed him Lord Lavellan’s own illegitimate son, though he was far too pale for that rumour to hold any weight. Instead Tanith believed it likely that Nico’s sire was one of her father’s well-appointed friends, and that he had taken the boy in as a ward to stave off scandal.

Nico was around Tanith’s own age, arriving in their household when she was a child. While it was always made clear to them that they were of starkly different ranks, the two were educated together and played often as children. When they came of age Nico was appointed steward of Lord Lavellan’s estate, and Tanith became occupied with the demands of the season. They had seen little of each other in the years before Lady Lavellan died and the household moved north, though they had retained an affectionate friendship.

Affectionate, and convenient. Due to their being raised in close proximity, Nico was seen as a suitable chaperone for Tanith in the absence of other relatives. While he took pains to ensure that others considered this arrangement respectable, he had always allowed Tanith a great deal of freedom. In return, she did not divulge any of his own secrets. It was a fine agreement, and a mutually beneficial one.

He did, however, enjoy lording it over her on occasion. That morning was such a one. Throughout their short walk to the village he teased her, wondering aloud which suitable young gentleman she would be wed to by summer’s end, questioning whether her future groom would appreciate her newfound piety. Tanith ignored his jibes, focusing instead on the hedgerows that bordered the path. Spring was bringing the verges into bloom; dog roses and willowherb, tiny green blackberries and swaying stalks of cow parsley. She made a mental note to send someone down from the house soon, to trim some wildflowers for her arrangements.

They arrived at the church a little before noon. It was the oldest structure in the village, older even than Thornford Hall. Despite its antiquity, it was hardly grand; a squat building of grey stone with a single tower, the graveyard beside it dominated by a vast yew tree. As she always did, on her rare visits here, Tanith read the names of the gravestones as she passed. She enjoyed imagining the lives of those inscribed there, recognising surnames of those still alive in the village. It made her feel a part of something larger, a web of life that spooled out into the past.

The front door of the church was open, and Nico knocked briefly before stepping inside. Tanith followed him, bracing herself for the omnipresent scent of dust that she recalled from her sporadic attendance at services. It was cold inside, despite the warmth of the March air, the stained glass dulling the light that spilled in through the windows. Inwardly Tanith balked at the idea of spending more time in such a place.

The vicar had been in the vestry when they arrived, though he walked back into the church when Nico and Tanith approached the altar. For the first time Tanith noticed that Mr Blackwall walked with a slight limp, favouring his left leg. He was not wearing his clergy vestments, for which she supposed she should be thankful. It was humiliating enough to be forced to keep the man’s company as it was, without being reminded of his vocation.

Nico introduced himself to the vicar, and, as was customary, introduced Tanith as well. She smiled as politely as she was able, and tried not to take offence when Mr Blackwall only deigned to meet her eyes for a moment. He turned his attention back to Nico almost immediately, and asked whether they should retire to the vicarage to see to the paperwork.

“That won’t be necessary,” Nico said, taking the leather case he had brought with him and setting it on the altar. “This will only take a minute.”

If Mr Blackwall disapproved of this sacrilege, his face did not show it. “Very well.” His grey eyes darted back over to Tanith. “Lady Lavellan, will you…?”

“I will be fine,” Tanith said, picking up the trailing end of his question. “Go about your business. I shall amuse myself.”

Mr Blackwall looked as though he might protest, but Nico was already chattering away about deeds and mortgages and necessary signatures. Tanith took the opportunity to slip away, wandering over to the edge of the room where she would not be drawn into conversation.

In the years since she and her father had moved to Derbyshire Tanith had come to church only rarely. There were certain occasions that demanded it — Christmas, Easter, the occasional wedding or funeral — but she had never made a habit of it, and neither had Lord Lavellan. She found the place rather dour. The thick stone walls seemed to both muffle and amplify sound, making her footsteps seem impossibly loud against the tiles. She examined the pews, with their worn-out cushions and well-thumbed hymn books; the font, holding its pool of holy water; the empty vessels where flowers should be.

Eventually she made her way to the pulpit. Seeing nothing better to do, she climbed the steps to look down upon the church below. It seemed larger, somehow, from this vantage point. There was a book set upon the lectern, its binding new and crisp. Opening the cover, Tanith found it full of sermons — dull, meandering reflections on the Bible, self-righteous explorations of various psalms.

She was halfway through a particularly nasty little passage about gluttony when she heard someone clear their throat nearby. Looking down she saw Mr Blackwall hovering a few yards away, his face a little stricken. He felt that she was intruding, she supposed, putting her nose where it didn’t belong. Well, did the church not belong to her, in a way, as much as any of the land did? She could go where she pleased.

“Do you truly use this for your sermons?” Tanith asked, tapping her fingers against the book. “You do not write your own?”

“It is quite common, Lady Lavellan, I assure you. I would not bore the congregation with my own words when those of better-educated men are available to me.”

The vicar still could not seem to keep his eyes on her. He would meet her gaze for a moment, then look down at the floor, over at the far walls, up at the ceiling. Tanith was irked by this. He could at least pretend to be interested in what she had to say.

“That seems rather foolish to me,” she sniffed. “If I had the privilege of standing on a pulpit twice a week, with a hundred people duty-bound to heed my words, I imagine I would use the opportunity to voice my own opinions. Not those of some other gentleman.”

“I am sure you would, my Lady.”

“Now, Tanith,” Nico said. He had finished with his papers now, and was in the process of securing them safely inside his case. “I am sure that Mr Blackwall wouldn’t deign to tell you how to dance a cotillion. Leave the man to his business.”

Tanith stopped short of rolling her eyes, conscious that she and Nico were not alone. Instead she stepped neatly down from the pulpit, forcing an expression of benign politeness onto her face. Now came the part that she was dreading. She wanted nothing more than to go home, to leave the church and its dull occupant behind and go to seek out better entertainment, but her father would skin her alive if he knew that she had reneged on her promise.

“Mr Blackwall,” she said. “Would you care to take a turn around the village? I would be happy to show you some of the amenities there are available.”

He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure whether accepting immediately was presumptuous. Then he nodded, once. “That would be kind of you.”

“Very well then,” she said, gesturing towards the door. “Shall we go?”

Tanith had hoped that Nico would make this chore a little easier for her, talking to Mr Blackwall on their constitutional so she was not forced to. Instead he hung a few paces behind them, like a good chaperone, which he certainly knew would infuriate Tanith to no end. She would make him pay for that later, but for the time being she had to concentrate on the task in hand.

Tanith attempted to keep her conversation light as the three of them walked through the village, pointing out various shops and households of interests, sprinkling in a little of the estate’s history as relayed to her by her father. Mr Blackwall replied in a variety of monosyllables, seemingly unable to conjure up anything more compelling than a  _ yes _ or an  _ indeed _ when she asked whether something was to his liking. Mr Arbuthnot, while older than God himself, was at least capable of forming a sentence.

Eventually she grew impatient with his silence, and resolved to make the man talk. If she was to be forced to attend his pre-written sermons, the least he could do was make a modicum of effort.

“I understand you served with my father on the continent,” Tanith said. “Unusual, for a clergyman to go to war, is it not?”

Mr Blackwall hesitated before speaking. “I was a soldier first, Lady Lavellan.”

“Were you now?” Tanith raised her eyebrows, surprised by this revelation. “That is more unusual still. Where did you study?”

“I appreciate your showing an interest, my Lady, but you would find my personal history tremendously dull.”

“Is it not up to me to decide what I find dull?”

“I can’t imagine that a parish priest’s education would be diverting to one such as yourself.”

“‘One such as myself’?” Tanith repeated, narrowing her eyes at him. He was much taller than her, and found she had to crane her neck a little for the gesture to be effective. “How are you defining ‘one such as myself’, Mr Blackwall? A woman? A member of the gentry?”

“My apologies, Lady Lavellan. I meant no offence—”

“I am certain you did not. I am merely curious.”

The vicar let out a long breath, teeth worrying at his lip as he considered his next words. “A combination of those things, I suppose,” he said. “You are a lady, and well-titled. Your interests—”

“And what do you know of my interests, sir?” Tanith scoffed. “We have barely been acquainted for an hour.”

She saw how his cheeks coloured above his beard, a flush that could not be attributed to the heat of the day. “You’re right, of course,” he said. “I misspoke. It was thoughtless, Lady Lavellan. Forgive me.”

“My,” Tanith sighed. “You do give in easily. How disappointing. Here I was hoping for a more spirited discussion.”

They walked in silence for a moment before he spoke again. “Correct me, then,” he said, his voice low and even. “Tell me of your interests.”

Tanith felt a smile tug at the corners of her mouth. A minor victory. “Well,” she said. “Despite what my father may have told you, I care little for the pianoforte. Even less for watercolours. I cannot sing, nor draw, nor embroider with any skill.”

“You downplay your achievements,” he said. “Such modesty is a virtue.”

Tanith frowned at him. His voice was so level that it was difficult to tell whether he was mocking her.

“I only say this to illustrate the gulf between the picture my father painted of me and the reality. That is all.”

“Very well, then. What do you enjoy, Lady Lavellan?”

“I enjoy dancing,” she said. “And you will think me silly, I am sure, but I enjoy fine clothes and the wearing of them. I like to read, if the weather is not clement, and to walk, if it is. Most of all I enjoy flowers.”

“You must miss London, then,” he said. “I have seen no florists in the village.”

“I do not require one, sir,” she said. “I arrange them myself. My mother had a talent for it, and she taught me in turn.”

“I see.” Mr Blackwall spoke carefully, as though measuring his words. “Would it be impertinent to ask whether you might organise some flowers for the church? It seems the sort of thing a church should have, and frankly I wouldn’t know where to start.”

A little shiver of excitement went down Tanith’s spine at this suggestion. For many years now her arrangements had been more or less confined to Thornford Hall, where no one but her father and the servants ever saw them. It would be a delight to display her flowers where others could appreciate them.

“I would be happy to,” she said. “I will have to think on what blooms would be appropriate for the house of God.”

Mr Blackwall opened his mouth as if to say something else, then suddenly hissed in pain. He stumbled a little on the path, throwing out a hand to catch himself on a drystone wall. For a moment his whole body was rigid with tension, and Nico jogged over to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Heavens, man, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” the vicar grunted. “Apologies. Old wound— don’t trouble yourself.”

Mr Blackwall made a placating gesture with his free hand and Nico retreated again, clearly understanding it would harm the man’s pride for him to press the issue. Tanith took a hesitant step forward, unsure what to do in these circumstances. If she had been unwell she was certain the vicar would have offered her his arm, but it seemed improper the other way around.

“Is there something I can do?” Tanith asked. “I’m sorry, we should not have walked so far—”

“Please, there’s no need to apologise.” Mr Blackwall pushed himself back to his feet, wincing slightly. “It isn’t always this bad. Comes and goes.”

“Shall we walk back to the church? I am sure you have plenty to do this afternoon, and I would not keep you from it.”

The look in Mr Blackwall’s eyes then was a strange one; mingled relief and gratitude, something almost like shame. It took Tanith a moment to realise that he was finally holding her gaze.

“Let us go, then,” she said quickly, glancing away. “If you are ready?”

They walked quietly for a while, Tanith absorbed in her own thoughts. She marked that Mr Blackwall’s limp seemed more pronounced now, and slowed her pace to ensure he did not overexert himself. It seemed, in retrospect, slightly callous of her to have not enquired after his health some minutes ago.

“Does it cause you a great deal of pain?” she asked. “Your wound.”

“Not really,” he sighed. “The frustration bothers me, more than the pain. I had little else but my strength, once, and now I lack even that.”

Tanith blinked at the bitterness in his voice. “I am sure that strength is not your only quality, sir.”

“You are kind to say so, my Lady.” His expression softened a little. “And I apologise. I should not burden you with my troubles.”

“Honesty is never a burden.”

“It is only— imagine if you were robbed of your natural virtues overnight,” he said. “If you woke one day to find you no longer had your beauty. It is galling, to lose such a thing.”

Tanith found herself momentarily speechless. It was not so much the impropriety of his statement — though it was undeniably improper — but more the way he said it. Gentlemen were forever remarking on Tanith’s beauty, in contrived, deliberate ways, intended to elicit a response from her. Mr Blackwall spoke of her beauty as though it were a fact of life, like the setting of the sun or the changing of the seasons.

The vicar clearly took Tanith’s silence as a rebuke, for he quickly stammered out an apology.

“I’m sorry, Lady Lavellan,” he said. “I confess, I’m unused to keeping company with the gentry. I forget that the manners of your class are different to my own.”

“Then we must dispense with such manners,” Tanith said easily. “If we are to be friends.”

He stared at her for a moment, as if unsure whether she was serious. Then he nodded, his eyes flickering back to the road ahead.

“Very well,” he said. “If we are to be friends.”


	4. Magnolia

Lady Lavellan came to the morning service on Sunday, for the second week in a row.

Blackwall was surprised to see her there. He had thought that, after fulfilling whatever obligation caused her to attend the first time, she would consider her duty done and never step foot in the church again. He knew from village gossip that her first appearance had been an anomaly. It was clear that she did not come out of piety. What other reason, then, could a woman of her station have to suddenly begin attending services?

A promise, probably. Likely her father’s doing; Lord Lavellan urging his daughter to show willing, in order to make Blackwall feel as though the county’s grandest family was bestowing their favour upon him. Polite, certainly, but not necessary. Blackwall had hoped that once he came here Lord Lavellan would more or less leave him alone; he did not need further reminders of their association. Perhaps the Marquess felt this also, and that was why he had sent his daughter in his stead.

Blackwall kept his eyes on the pulpit as he read his sermon, though he could still feel Lady Lavellan’s gaze boring into him. She was judging him, no doubt, for once again preaching with another man’s words. After her first accusation Blackwall had made a sorry attempt to write his own, but had given up after two lines. He was, and never would be, an articulate man. His parishioners did not need to hear him stumbling through some embarrassing self-penned homily.

Still, he could not shake the feeling that he was disappointing her, somehow. As though such a thing should matter to him. But Lady Lavellan had that air about her, something in her bearing that made one feel constantly challenged. Perhaps she was simply so used to her high standard of life that she expected the same from all around her. She would be let down sorely if she thought Blackwall could rise to such lofty heights.

That was perhaps unfair, though. Upon their first meeting Blackwall had concluded that Lord Lavellan’s daughter was precisely what he would have imagined — a shallow, spoiled young woman with no more substance than gossamer. It was a bias he had learned during his brief time in London. He had spent his life surrounded by strong, sharp women, from the relatives in the mining town where he was raised to the taciturn, dark-eyed Neapolitans who had sometimes given him shelter during the war. When he returned to port in Britain he had spent a little time in the capital, and had been unimpressed by his glimpses of the monied, pouting ladies of the ton.

Blackwall had assumed Lady Lavellan would be much of the same, and his first impression had done little to counter that. But when she had visited the church a few days later with Lord Lavellan’s steward he had seen a different side of her. She was clever, in a quick, sly sort of way, and while he did not encounter much of the boldness that village rumour implied, he could see it bubbling beneath the surface. A swift tongue, a dangerous smile. But there was kindness in her, too; when he had stumbled by the road she had appeared genuinely concerned. He had resolved then not to make any more assumptions of her then, in the hope that she would do the same for him. Blackwall was sure that his own introduction had hardly been perfect.

He managed to finish his sermon without obvious error, and breathed a quiet sigh of relief when the parishioners began to file out of the church. All but Lady Lavellan. She remained loitering near the door as the others left, her maid standing at her shoulder, and when all else had departed she turned and approached the pulpit.

“Mr Blackwall,” she called. “Might I have a moment?”

“Of course, Lady Lavellan.”

He stepped down from the platform, though this did little to redress the balance of their heights. At a time when the fashion favoured women who were tall and willowy, unblemished by the sun, Lady Lavellan was a clear contrast. The freckles on her face and arms spoke of long days in the open air, and she did not attempt to augment her height with heeled slippers. It was refreshing, really, to see a woman so unencumbered by what society expected of her.

“I have an invitation for you,” she said. “The Adlers would like you to come for luncheon at Atterwick House. Today. I’m sorry for the short notice, but it was all rather last minute.”

“What time would they expect me?” Blackwall said, feeling an uncharacteristic stab of panic. “I’m hardly— I do not know what the protocol is, for such things.”

Lady Lavellan smiled, the corners of her eyes creasing. “Don’t worry,” she said. “The Adlers do not stand on ceremony. Two o’clock, or thereabouts. I’m walking over there now— should I tell them to set a place for you?”

“Ah— yes, that would be kind,” he said. “You will be there, then?”

“I will,” she said. “Why? Does that make the invitation less appealing?”

“The opposite, my Lady, I assure you.”

Lady Lavellan lifted her chin a little, as though well-satisfied with his response. “Good. Until later, then.”

She and her maid left the church, and silence rushed in to fill the void behind her. Blackwall left swiftly after that, hanging up his vestments before returning straight to the vicarage. He spent an inordinate amount of time trying to decide whether he should change his clothes, if he should bring a gift, how he should greet his hosts. Lord Lavellan had spoken of the Adlers to Blackwall before, but now he could not remember the first thing about them. What was their title? Viscount, baronet? What was expected of him in such company? He had come to Derbyshire expecting a life spent mostly among the common folk, not taking tea with the county’s lords and ladies. He felt woefully unprepared for such a task.

As it transpired, he needn’t have worried. From the moment he was welcomed into the Adlers’ sitting room later that afternoon he realised how different a place Atterwick House was to Thornford Hall. Lord Lavellan’s house had been grand enough to intimidate, and even the servants had seemed to look down their noses at Blackwall when he passed. The Adlers’ home could not have been more of a contrast. Warm, buttery light poured in through the open shutters, illuminating the modestly furnished room and highlighting the scratches on the floorboards, the worn patches on the rugs. This was not to say the place was unpleasant; the imperfections made it all the more appealing.

Lady Lavellan had been sitting on a low couch near the window, and she was on her feet before the footman had finished announcing Blackwall’s presence. Her cheeks were a little flushed, and she bounced slightly on the balls of her feet as she came to greet him.

“You’re here,” she said. “I thought you might have changed your mind.”

“My manners may be rough, Lady Lavellan, but even I wouldn’t be that rude.”

She laughed at that, an honest, low chuckle, then rested her hand lightly on her arm as she turned back to the room. “Here. Let me introduce everyone. It may take some time.”

Lady Lavellan was right on that count. The Adlers were a large family, all sharing the same dark colouring and strong features. Baron Adler — David, he insisted — turned out to be the second son of the family, the reason for which became clear when the eldest, Daniel, introduced his wife, a Viscount. While Blackwall knew little about the gentry, he had a suspicion that this was somewhat irregular. Eldest children rarely married above their station, as this made their own titles forfeit. It was clear that the eldest daughter, Tevi, was Lady Lavellan’s particular friend. The two were close in age, and when they spoke it was with the comfortable familiarity of sisters. Tevi’s own sister, Esther, was the youngest of the Adlers, still in short skirts with her hair loose around her shoulders. Blackwall did not catch the names of Daniel’s children, though with the way they tore around the room it was impossible to ignore them.

Presiding over this picture of domesticity was Lady Devorah Adler, the family’s matriarch. She was a sturdy woman with a wry smile, who made apologies for her family’s chaotic appearance while clearly being somewhat proud of it. Blackwall was certain he remembered something about her late husband, from the war — but, given that circumstance, he felt it better not to enquire. Men and women of all ranks had left for that conflict, many never to return.

Not long after Blackwall arrived the family was called into the dining room, where they were served a light luncheon of cold chicken, fresh fruit, and bread still warm from the oven. Lady Lavellan was seated to Blackwall’s left, David to his right. Unlike the dining room at Thornford Hall, which he had walked past during his visit, the one at Atterwick House was small enough that all at the table could easily hear one another talking. And talk they did; a constant stream of chatter that did not seem to let up even for a moment.

“—and why not?” Esther asked. “Why shouldn’t you take me with you?”

“Because you’re not yet old enough, chick,” Daniel said. “All in good time.”

“The season really isn’t all it’s made out to be,” Tevi said, cutting an apple into quarters. “You may be disappointed.”

“Well how will I know if I never get to _go_?”

“You must think us rather uncouth, Mr Blackwall,” Lady Adler said, drawing his attention. “I promise you they are much better behaved than this, usually. We do not get many new guests, and I fear it has rather excited them all.” She spoke of all her family as though they were a single entity, the adult sons as prone to these foibles as the grandchildren.

“Rubbish,” Lady Lavellan whispered, loud enough for her host to hear. “They are always like this.”

Lady Adler scoffed, shaking her head fondly. “You ought to watch your tongue, my girl, and mind you don’t cut someone with it.”

Blackwall was surprised by the familiar way the women spoke to one another. Though Lady Lavellan outranked Lady Adler significantly, they behaved as though they were equals.

He turned to Lady Adler, trying to keep his tone as polite as possible. “I was a soldier, once. I assure you the company I am used to keeping is far more uncouth than yours.”

“That’ll be why mother thinks us such wild animals, then,” David chuckled. He gestured to himself, then Daniel, then Tevi. “All three of us did our time in the army. It must be where we picked up our appalling manners.”

“Doesn’t account for hers,” Tevi said, reaching over to ruffle her sister’s hair.

Esther drew back, hissing like a cat. “ _Stop_ it, you!”

Blackwall found this new information oddly reassuring. The military was, at least, an area where he felt somewhat comfortable. He turned to David, trying to recall that he was speaking to a Baron as well as a brother-in-arms.

“Where did you serve?” he asked.

“Portugal, mostly,” David said. “Stuck behind the Torres Vedras. Lots of sitting around. Quite boring, really, except when it wasn’t. How about you?”

Blackwall relaxed into the conversation then, finding himself on familiar ground. He and the Adler siblings talked for a long time about their experiences on the continent, sharing battle stories and trying to work out if and when their paths had crossed (it seemed that they hadn’t, though it transpired that Blackwall and Daniel both recalled one particularly memorable grenadier, who had once almost blown up a barracks during a game of cards).

So engrossed was he in the discussion, it was some time before he realised he had been neglecting his other dinner companion. He turned back towards Lady Lavellan, who was watching him with a curious look upon her face.

“I apologise, my Lady,” he said. “I’m being terribly rude.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I’m pleased to see you enjoying yourself.”

Blackwall searched for some mockery in her tone, but found none. “Do you dine here often?”

“As often as I can,” she said. “Their cook is far better than ours, and their conversation far better than father’s.”

“I can believe that,” he said, daring a smile. “I mean no disrespect to Lord Lavellan, but he has never had a reputation as an entertainer.”

Tanith laughed. “No, I imagine not.” She folded her hands in her lap, slender fingers lacing together. “Did you enjoy it, then? Your time in the army?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he said. “There are some who enjoy the thrill of conflict, but I don’t count myself among them. Still, there are things I miss. There is a certain comfort to knowing what is expected of you, how to be useful.”

“And you do not feel that in the church?”

He hesitated for a moment before speaking. “If I’m being honest, no. It can be difficult, making every decision for yourself. For the most part there is no one guiding you.”

“Not even him?” Lady Lavellan glanced upwards, towards the ceiling.

“He is a very distant general, as these things go.”

“You take your freedom for granted, sir,” she said. “What I wouldn’t give to have such liberty of choice.”

There was the barest hint of bitterness in her tone. As difficult it was to feel sympathy for the gentry, Blackwall could understand how her life might be hard in its own way. The only heir of an old family, with centuries of expectation placed upon your shoulders. What you did, who you loved, how you comported yourself, all under such intense scrutiny. He was certain he would not enjoy such an existence either.

After they had eaten Lady Adler suggested they retire to the garden, since the day was so fine, and the others readily agreed. The grounds of Atterwick House were modest but well-maintained, rolling lawns bordered on one side by the house and on the other by a walled kitchen garden. Daniel’s children started insisting that they have a game of pall-mall, and after a modicum of badgering he relented and went off to fetch the equipment.

The Adler siblings all joined in, as did the Viscount and Lady Lavellan, but Blackwall excused himself as politely as he was able. He did not trust that his bad leg would hold during the game, and he did not want to repeat the humiliation of his walk with Lady Lavellan. It still mortified him that he could be brought so low by such an old injury, that the vitality he once took for granted was now so pernicious. Lady Adler joined him in sitting out the game, perhaps out of sympathy. She had a servant bring table and chairs out, and the two of them drank tea while they watched the others play.

Blackwall had not realised how much he had missed this; the company of others, the pleasure of being around people who cared for one another. The Adlers reminded him more of the families he had grown up with than the genteel dynasties of the ton. There was something warm about them, unassuming. He watched how they behaved with one another as they set up the hoops and handed out the mallets, their gentle teasing and frequent laughter.

Lady Lavellan was not, as far as he knew, any blood relation of the Adlers, but she fit as snugly into their company. She seemed more at ease here, less haughty than when Blackwall had met her before. He watched her show one of Daniel’s children how to hit the ball towards the hoop, saw how she threw back her head and laughed when the child creased its little face in concentration. Several strands of hair had come loose from their pins. They curled gently around her ears, the sunlight burnishing them like mahogany.

“She’s rather something, isn’t she?” Lady Adler asked.

Blackwall froze for a moment, as though caught doing something untoward. “Who is, my Lady?”

“Tanith,” she said, turning back towards the lawn. “She’s a fine young woman.”

“Yes,” Blackwall said, unsure whether this was some kind of trap. “Yes, she is.”

“It was her suggested you come today, you know. Not that we wouldn’t have invited you ourselves, of course, but Tanith insisted we do so at our first convenience.”

“She did?”

“Indeed,” Lady Adler nodded. “She informed us in no uncertain terms that we would like you, and that there was no point in delaying. The devil could not deny that girl when she gets an idea in her head.”

“I’m sorry if my coming here today was inconvenient,” Blackwall said.

Lady Adler waved a hand. “Not at all. She was right, by the way. We do like you.”

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat. “Thank you. I’ve enjoyed your family’s company as well, if I may say so.”

“What I’m trying to tell you,” she continued. “Is there’s a lot more to Tanith than meets the eye. I’m certain you’ve heard all sorts of gossip — no, don’t protest, I know you have — but you mustn’t let that colour your view of her. Tanith is… uninhibited. To a fault, some might say. But she’s a sweet girl, underneath all her bluster.”

Blackwall turned to look at Lady Lavellan. She was talking to Tevi now, her hand on the other woman’s arm, her face animated as she spoke. The sunlight glinted off the narrow silver chain that circled her throat.

_Then we must dispense with such manners, if we are to be friends._

“I don’t take such rumours to heart,” Blackwall said. “Lady Lavellan has been nothing but welcoming to me, since I arrived. I would sooner form my own opinions of her than listen to vicious gossip.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Lady Adler said. She paused for a moment before speaking again, her brow furrowing a little. “I count Lord Lavellan among my dearest friends, and gladly so. But he is— he is not a warm man. He is not cruel, or unjust, but sometimes that is not quite enough. Not when you care for someone.”

Blackwall nodded. “I do have the impression that he and Lady Lavellan are not… that they are not always on good terms.”

“I understand it was different, before his wife died,” Lady Adler said. “I never had the pleasure of meeting the woman, but Tanith speaks fondly of her mother. Apparently Calvin was much more amiable when she was alive. She passed suddenly, you know, when he was at war. He came home to find himself a widower. Terrible business, just awful. But, for as long as they have lived in Derbyshire, the Lavellans’ home has been a cold one. Tanith has known little in the way of love, these past years.”

“It must have been difficult for her,” Blackwall said.

“It was,” Lady Adler sighed. “Though you’ll never catch her speaking a word of it. She is far too proud to accept pity.”

As the afternoon wore on a chill crept into the spring air, and when the first dusky blue of evening touched the horizon Lady Adler declared that it was time for everyone to come back inside.

“I’m afraid I must say my goodbyes,” Lady Lavellan said once they had returned to the drawing room. “There are some letters I want to finish while the light is still on my side.”

“Might I walk you back to Thornford Hall, Lady Lavellan?” Blackwall asked. “I should be heading back into the village myself.”

“You may,” she said, tilting her chin in that particular way again. “One moment. Let me fetch my shawl.”

The two of them said farewell to the Adlers, a process which took near to a quarter of an hour, then walked down the steps of Atterwick House with Lady Lavellan’s maid following a few steps behind. It was not a great distance to Thornford Hall, but Blackwall was still grateful for the slow pace that Lady Lavellan set. His knee was not bothering him overmuch today, but there was no point in taxing it more than was necessary.

The world was quiet that afternoon, the air preternaturally still. Insects buzzed lazily around the hedgerows that bordered the roadside, and the occasional magpie gave out a mocking call from the tops of the beech trees. Fields and hills stretched out on every side, giving the landscape the look of some pastoral painting.

“Did you enjoy today?” Lady Lavellan asked, glancing expectantly up at him.

“I did,” he said. “Very much. Lady Adler told me that the suggestion was yours.”

“Devorah should have kept that to herself,” Lady Lavellan said. “They wanted to meet you. I merely hurried them along.”

“Still. I am grateful.”

“I knew you would like them,” she said. “You are far more suited to their company than mine, I’m sure.”

Blackwall frowned down at her, uncertain if she was diminishing him or herself. “I hope you aren’t suggesting that I don’t enjoy your company.”

“Do you?” she laughed, seemingly amused. “I know little of war, and even less of the Bible.”

“You believe those are my sole interests, do you, Lady Lavellan?”

“You have yet to mention any others.”

“You have yet to ask.”

“I suppose I deserved that,” she smiled. “What were you and Devorah talking about in the garden, anyway? The two of you seemed thick as thieves.”

“Nothing of consequence.”

“Well that is terribly ominous. I dread to think what you were plotting. Are she and my father conspiring with you? Have you some grand plan to steer me on a more righteous path?”

“I doubt Your Ladyship could be steered anywhere she did not want to go.”

“Quite right, too.”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a while. At one point Lady Lavellan paused, then crouched down to pluck a small white flower from the roadside. She examined it closely as she walked, turning it in her fingers, lifting it to her nose to breathe in the scent. Blackwall remembered her speaking of her love for flowers, remembered too that she had learnt the art of arranging from her mother. That knowledge took on a new significance, following his conversation with Lady Adler. It was a link, he imagined, one that bound Lady Lavellan to one she had lost.

“I was wondering,” he said, “about the flowers for the church. Have you thought any more about them?”

She looked up at him, blinking as though his words had snapped her from some deep thought. “I have had some ideas, yes.”

“Would you share them with me?”

Lady Lavellan was quiet for a moment before speaking, teeth pressed to the pink swell of her lip. “Bluebells. For gratitude, and humility. Azaleas, for temperance. Lily of the Valley has all sort of biblical meanings…” she trailed off, her cheeks flushing. “You must think me rather stupid. It is an odd tradition, I know.”

“Not at all,” he said quickly. “There was a woman in the town where I grew up who knew such things. What the different flowers were supposed to mean.”

“I think it is wonderful,” Lady Lavellan said quietly. The white flower was still in her hand, pinched delicately between her thumb and forefinger. “We are permitted to say so little. It is freeing, to be able to express so much without words.”

Blackwall was suddenly conscious of how close she was walking to him, her bare arm almost brushing the sleeve of his coat. For a moment he caught himself holding his breath.

“And that one?” he asked, nodding at the flower she carried. “What meaning does it have?”

“It is stitchwort,” Lady Lavellan said. “It has no meaning that I know of.”

She stopped walking suddenly, forcing Blackwall to halt as well. Then she turned and tucked the white flower into the buttonhole of his coat, the gesture so casual that for a moment it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Lady Lavellan looked up at him with inscrutable eyes, a green so dark they were almost black, the fingertips of one hand still resting lightly on his chest. Blackwall felt a shiver run down the length of his spine, followed by a dull sort of fear. It was same fear he had often known on the battlefield; that disaster was approaching, and that he was powerless to stop it.

“That is freeing too, in a way,” Lady Lavellan said. “I suppose we may decide its meaning for ourselves.”


	5. Clarkia

Lady Keyes had an estate towards Matlock, an out-of-the-way house that had been built some hundred or so years previously. It had once been a run-down sort of place, the seat of a line that was close to dying out altogether. Lady Keyes, then Miss Braithwaite, had been due to inherit both the house and the debts that came with it. So, like many enterprising young people before her, she set about finding a marriage that would offset the costs of her inheritance.

The details of Miss Braithwaite’s courtship of the late Lord Keyes were still a matter of gossip in the present day. Little was known about how she, a notably plain young woman of no particular character, had managed to ensnare her husband, though there were a hundred-hundred scandalous tales that offered some explanation. Lord Keyes had no great bloodline to speak of, but a shrewd investment in the East India Company had left him a very wealthy man. While there were many among the ton whom he might have taken for a spouse, the aging lord had chosen to marry Miss Braithwaite the moment she turned twenty-one. Tragically, he died of a heart-attack only a week into their honeymoon, leaving the new Lady Keyes a widow— and as rich as Croesus.

All practicality despite her grief, she had used her departed husband’s fortune to pay off her family’s debts, invest in new staff, and restore her house to its former glory. Within twenty years it had gained a reputation as one of the finest estates in the county, and the parties that Lady Keyes hosted were some of the finest outside of London.

So it was that Tanith had been pleased to receive an invitation that week, requesting her attendance at Lady Keyes’ Easter ball. Everyone who was anyone would be there, she knew; there would be dancing, and music, and fine food, and the company of clever people. There was little enough in the way of high society out in the country, and Tanith spent the whole week looking forward to Friday evening. By a stroke of luck she already had a new dress in her wardrobe, as there would be no time to order one, and it was quite appropriate for the evening’s theme; primrose-yellow, with fine beading at the collar.

Her impatience made the time pass with frustrating slowness, but eventually Friday came around. An invitation had been extended to Nico too, despite his lack of title, and so they travelled together to Lady Keyes’ house that evening. Nico was rarely left out of these things — he was one of those odd creatures who, while holding no position, was nevertheless always included in such activities. Perhaps it was his closeness to the Lavellans; perhaps people simply enjoyed his company. Tanith thought it likely that both factors were at play. There was something of the chameleon about Nico, able to converse as easily with a Duke as a tenant farmer.

There was a long queue of carriages outside the estate, and after almost a quarter of an hour’s waiting the footmen came round to open the door and help them down from the cab. The windows of the house blazed with light, and Tanith could hear the faint strains of music drifting out from inside. Her heart fluttered a little in anticipation. It had been months and months since she last attended a proper ball, or at least one of this size, and she was impatient for it to begin.

She took Nico’s arm as they made their way up the steps, glancing around in the hopes of recognising familiar faces.

“Miss Whittingstall is here,” she said, quiet enough that only Nico could hear her. “Didn’t she take a shine to you, last time we were in London?”

“She did indeed,” Nico said, smiling politely as they passed a young woman with an abundance of blonde curls. “Though I’m afraid the feeling wasn’t mutual.”

“Emma is a perfectly nice girl.”

“She is. That was the problem.”

The ballroom was decked out for the occasion, hung with silk in yellow and lilac, the number of candles alone an indulgent display of wealth. Liveried footmen circulated with trays of drinks, and several long tables were heaving with fine food. Cornucopias spilled ripe fruit artfully on the tablecloths, showcasing the abundance of the estate's lands. As always, Tanith made a note of the flowers; daffodils, forsythia, alliums. Vanity, anticipation, prosperity. Appropriate enough, given their host. Lady Keyes herself was holding court at the far end of the room, resplendent in a gown the colour of violets. Though she was not very old — barely past forty — there was something matronly about the woman. She surveyed the dancefloor as though it were her own personal kingdom, which, in a way, it was.

Nico fetched drinks for himself and Tanith while she collected her dance card, and then they began making a slow circuit of the ballroom. It was customary to do so upon arriving at such an event, to make an inventory of the other guests and assess whom one knew and did not know. Given the limitations of Derbyshire society, Tanith was unsurprised to discover she knew a great many people already. She traded polite greetings with some of them, and less polite ones with others. The closed environment of the country ton allowed petty grudges to fester.

Eventually she spotted the Adlers in a far corner and made her way over to them, pleased that there would at least be some reliable company. Tevi seemed a little distracted when she said hello, and when Tanith followed the path of her gaze she saw what it was her friend was looking at; the Duke of Havershire, presently dancing the minuet with a young woman dressed in green. Tevi’s old friend was recently returned to the county, her arrival met with much excitement and more than a little gossip.

“Her Grace is settling in well,” Tanith said. “I would have thought country society may seem dull to her, after such a long time away.”

“I believe Sera could fit in anywhere,” Tevi said fondly. “It would not surprise me to see her take as much pleasure in a cockfight as a salon.”

“She’s quite the eccentric, isn’t she?” Tanith watched as the Duke said a few words to her partner, setting the young lady off in fits of laughter. “I suppose she can afford to be.”

“I’m not sure it’s the money,” Tevi said. “I suspect she’d be just the same as a pauper.”

“Yes, but with a fortune like hers she can get away with it.” Tanith frowned, considering all the things she might do with such freedom. “I’m rather jealous.”

They watched as the minuet came to a close, and applauded politely as the dancers bowed to one another. The Duke seemed to be making her way back towards where the Adlers were standing, but before she could reach them she was whisked away by another handsome woman. Tevi made a sound that might almost be a sigh, then took a long sip of her drink.

“Don’t fret,” Tanith said, patting her friend’s arm. “She’s a novelty, that’s all. I’m sure you’ll have a chance to speak to her once she’s done the rounds.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” Tevi said. “Her income might be of little consequence to me, but I’m sure it matters very much to some people. How often does a bachelorette with ten thousand a year come to Derbyshire?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Tanith said. “But I expect she’s bored of those sorts of attentions. I’ve had plenty of fortune hunters sniffing around me over the years, and their company is always tiresome. It reeks of desperation.”

Tevi chuckled. “Thank you, Tan. I think I needed to hear that.”

“Lady Lavellan? Is that you?”

The sound of her name, spoken in a half-familiar voice, drew Tanith’s attention. Glancing around, her gaze alighted on a tall, well-dressed gentleman approaching from the other side of the room. It took her a moment to recognise him, and when she did a smile broke across her face.

“Lord Malton,” she said, stepping forward to take his hand. “What on earth are you doing this far north?”

“Would you believe me if I said I came looking for you?”

“I wouldn’t.” Tanith smirked, lightly squeezing his fingertips. “Tell me, really.”

“I’m visiting a cousin,” Lord Malton said. “Over in Belper.”

“That makes far more sense. It’s a pleasure to see you, no matter the reason.”

Tanith had met Lord Malton some three years ago, when she spent a summer with her mother’s relatives in Brighton. They had stepped out together often, during those months, and while neither of them were inclined towards marriage they had enjoyed each other’s company a great deal. He was clever, a little rakish, and most importantly the first-born son of his family. That meant that her father would never dream of encouraging the match, and she did not have to listen to any tedious arguments regarding why she should take up with him.

“Have you a partner for the quadrille?” he asked. “Your card isn’t full already, I hope?”  
“It is quite empty, my Lord,” Tanith said, showing him the blank spaces. “Would it be bold of me to take that as an invitation?”

Lord Malton smiled at her. “Yes, but I hope that you will anyway.”

Tanith returned his smile, then added his name to her card. He was as handsome as she remembered, with a strong jaw and eyes of a rather startling blue, and yet— and yet. She could not put her finger on what was bothering her, precisely. Tanith recalled all the times they had flirted that summer in Brighton, how it had sent little thrills down her spine when they spoke. Nothing of the sort seemed to be happening now. It was pleasant, speaking to Lord Malton, and she was glad to see him, but it all felt rather… rote. She was suddenly aware that she might have had the same conversation with any number of men she had known, almost verbatim. Like reading the script of a play.

Still, she mustn’t be ungrateful. Tanith put that thought from her mind, and focused on enjoying the evening’s entertainments. Before long two more spaces on her card were full, and when the music began again she made her way to the dancefloor to meet her partner. She had always loved dancing, ever since she was first brought out. Those of her station were not allowed to run, or swim, or climb trees, or do almost anything that might constitute exercise. Tanith loved the way her heart quickened at the lively movement, how her muscles awoke and burned with energy. It was a great pleasure to step lightly with the music, to feel her partner’s hand firm in hers as they turned about the floor. Married couples danced sometimes, but only rarely; yet another reason to avoid the institution altogether.

The quadrille was the third dance of the evening, and when the dance master announced it Tanith went to seek out Lord Malton. She found him chatting to some other gentlemen, though he quickly brought his conversation to a close when he saw Tanith approaching. When he took her hand Tanith once again hoped to feel that familiar frisson, but was disappointed. It seemed whatever attraction she once felt for him had departed, though she could think of no reason as to why.

They took their places for the quadrille, and then the musicians began to play. Tanith let herself forget her concerns for a while, to simply enjoy the moment; the cheerful music, the skipping steps and turns, the sight of the candles whirling at the corners of her eyes. While her partner may not elicit the same feelings as he once did, the dance itself was as enjoyable as ever.

The quadrille was almost at an end when Tanith spotted a familiar face at the edge of the room. She had to look back over her shoulder to check her eyes had not deceived her, and almost missed a turn in the process. Lord Malton steered her gently back on track, his hand resting on her shoulder.

“Careful there,” he said. “Are you well, Tan?”

The familiarity made her feel almost uncomfortable, though there was no reason why it should have. They had often used their Christian names in private before.

“Very well, thank you. I caught sight of a friend, that’s all. I was not expecting him to be here.”

Tanith felt the slightest tensing of Lord Malton’s hand in hers. Still, his voice was polite, when he spoke. “Ah. You should go and see him, then. I will not keep you.”

“Thank you, my Lord.”

“I wish you would call me Henry.”

“You flatter me,” she said. “But I do not think it appropriate. At least not any more.”

“I see,” he said, stopping to bow as the dance came to an end. “In that case I apologise for my impropriety, Lady Lavellan.”

“You need not,” Tanith said. She felt sorry for him, unable to provide a good reason for why she was severing their intimacy so. “It has been good to see you, my Lord. I hope we may meet again before you return south.”

“I would like that very much.” He nodded graciously, then turned and walked away from the dancefloor.

Tanith waited for a few moments, then moved through the crowd to the other side of the room. At first she thought that it may have been her eyes playing tricks on her, but just when she was about to give up she spotted Mr Blackwall standing near the entrance to the foyer. She caught his eye and lifted a hand in greeting, then made her way over towards him.

“Mr Blackwall,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“I wasn’t sure I was going to come,” he said. “I half thought my invitation had been sent by mistake. But I saw Lady Adler in the village this morning, and she insisted I make an appearance.”

Tanith glanced over to where Devorah was standing with her children, fanning herself as she said something to Daniel. Curious, that she had not mentioned the vicar’s attendance to Tanith when she arrived.

“I’m not surprised you were invited,” Tanith said. “Lady Keyes likes to keep an eye on all the new arrivals. She’s a terrible gossip, that one, though you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Hear what?”  
“Precisely.”

It did not escape Tanith’s notice that Mr Blackwall looked slightly uncomfortable standing among the crowd of lords and ladies. While he had clearly made an effort to dress well for the occasion, beside the opulent fashions of the other guests he could not help but appear a little shabby. There was a button missing from one of his cuffs, and the dark colours he wore set him apart from the rest of them. Tanith wondered how long he had been standing there by himself, holding his wine glass as though he might break it.

“I suppose men of your vocation are not permitted to dance,” Tanith said.

“Not for the most part,” he replied, then gestured down at his leg. “Though I’m not sure I’d be able to, even if I was.”

“Of course,” she said, feeling her cheeks flush. “That was very stupid of me.”

“Not at all.” Mr Blackwall shifted his weight a little. “I often forget about it myself.”

Tanith wondered if he was in any pain, having to stand for such a long period. There was a slight tension around his mouth, a narrowing of his eyes that suggested he was not entirely comfortable. She knew that his injury troubled him, knew too that it had damaged his pride as much as his body.

“I find myself quite tired,” Tanith said. “I cannot dance through the night as I used to. If I sit for a while, would you be so kind as to keep me company?”

Mr Blackwall blinked for a moment, as though surprised by her request. “If you wish me to,” he said. “Of course.”

Tanith led them to an alcove at the edge of the room, where there were several low couches for those who wished to take the weight off their feet. They sat a respectable distance apart, facing out towards the dancefloor, and accepted drinks from a passing footman. While she had contrived the reason, Tanith did find herself somewhat relieved to be sitting down. Her new slippers were pinching a little, and she suspected she would wake up tomorrow with blisters on her heels.

“How are you settling in?” Tanith asked. “Well, I hope.”

“Very well, my Lady. Thank you.” Mr Blackwall took a long sip of his drink. “Everyone has been most hospitable.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “And you find Derbyshire to your liking?”

“I do,” he said. “Though I feel disloyal saying so.”

Tanith smiled. “I guessed you were from Yorkshire.”

“You guess correctly,” he said. “Though I haven’t lived there for a long time.”

“Father said you were in London, after the war,” she said. “Did you not enjoy it?”

“Not especially,” he admitted. “Though I imagine the London I saw is very different to the one you are used to.”

“Yes, I would think so.” Tanith smoothed down her skirt with a gloved hand. “I’m afraid I’ve been rather spoilt.”

“You’ve been lucky,” Mr Blackwall said. “I’m not sure anyone could resent you for that.”

“And yet many do.”

“I’m sure. Do you miss London, then?”

Tanith sighed, considering his question for a moment. “I can’t honestly say. Six months ago I would have told you yes, absolutely. But I haven’t found myself longing for the season this year, not like I used to. Perhaps I am getting old.”

The vicar laughed. “My Lady, if you are old then I may as well be committed to the grave.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, smiling. “That was a little melodramatic. I only mean to say that the lustre has gone off that sort of society, for me.”

“Your interests are changing, I suppose,” he said. “That seems only healthy.”

“Yes, but changing to what? It’s not as though I’ve found something new to occupy myself.”

“Maybe that will reveal itself in time.”

“Maybe,” she sighed. “Though if I develop a sudden yen for embroidery you must promise to have me exorcised.”

“I’m sure it won’t come to that, my Lady.”

They talked for a while longer, speaking of the conflict in Chile and the rumblings of trouble in the east. It was not genteel of Tanith to discuss such things, she knew, but she often read her father’s papers once he was finished with them, and it was interesting to hear the views of someone with a military background. In return, Tanith obliged Mr Blackwall’s request to teach him some of what she knew of her society. She pointed out the major players in the room, told him their titles and holdings, peppered in some particularly interesting morsels of gossip.

“Do you see that gentleman over there?” Tanith said, nodding to a small man hovering at the edge of the dancefloor.

“The one with the awful cravat?”

“That’s the one. Apparently his wife has been having an affair with his cousin for as long as they’ve been married. He’s been attempting to return the favour for years, in revenge, but no one will have him.”

“Given that cravat, I’m not surprised.”

Tanith snorted indecorously, lifting her hand to cover her mouth. “Quite so.”

A man approached them then, some young gentleman that Tanith half-remembered from one of Lady Keyes’ previous soirees. He bowed politely, then turned his attention towards Tanith.

“Lady Lavellan,” he said. “I wonder if I might have the pleasure of the next dance, if you aren’t already spoken for?”

Tanith hesitated for a moment. If she declined him, she could not dance again for the rest of the evening, and there were a number of sets still to go; but despite this, she did not feel inclined to accept. For a week she had been looking forward to this night, these dances, but now she seemed to have lost all interest.

“I’m afraid I’m rather worn out,” she said. “My apologies, sir, but I would rather rest a while.”

The young gentleman seemed disappointed, but withdrew from them politely. When he was out of earshot Mr Blackwall turned to Tanith, his brow creasing.

“You did not have to decline him on my account,” he said. “You have already wasted too much of your evening with me.”

“I declined him on my own account,” Tanith said. “And I have wasted nothing. I came to this ball to pass the time pleasantly and in good company, and I have done just that.”

Tanith was certain she did not imagine the way his cheeks flushed above his beard, nor how his hand fidgeted slightly where it rested on the arm of the couch.

“You do me too much honour, my Lady.”

“Honour has nothing to do with it,” she said. “But I am afraid I have rather coerced you into keeping me entertained. I do not wish to monopolise your company, Mr Blackwall. If you wish to make a circuit I will happily go and seek out the Adlers.”

“I would rather stay with you.” He shook his head almost the moment he had spoken, reaching up to run a hand over his beard. “Forgive me, Lady Lavellan, that was—”

“I will not forgive you,” Tanith said. “For you have said nothing untoward. Only been kind about my company.”

She laid her hand lightly on his shoulder. It was supposed to be a reassuring gesture, one that would prevent him from worrying that he had spoken out of turn. But when she felt the coarse fabric of his coat through her thin gloves, the muscle shifting beneath her touch, it became something else entirely. Without thinking she glanced up at him, and found something searching in his pale eyes. For the first time that evening a shiver went through her. It was the kind she had once felt when handsome young gentlemen took her hand for the cotillion, when they leaned close to whisper in her ear. Tanith was speechless for a moment, shocked by how it thrilled her to touch him. She drew her hand away then, as casually as she could manage, bringing it to rest in her lap. The tips of her fingers burned.

“Perhaps we should both find the Adlers,” she said, swallowing hard. “I’m sure they would be pleased to see you.”

“If you think so, my Lady.”

“I do.” Tanith got to her feet, staring resolutely out across the dancefloor. “They are over there, I think.”

Mr Blackwall rose and stood beside her, but neither of them made to move forwards. For a long moment they stood and watched the couples turning elegantly around the centre of the room, each with the careless bloom of youth, of money, of breeding.

“I cannot offer you my arm,” Mr Blackwall said, still looking out across the dancefloor. “It would not be right.”

“You overestimate how much these things matter to me.”

“Perhaps not to you,” he said. “But they matter a great deal to them.”

Tanith did not ask of whom he spoke. His statement took in every guest in the ballroom, with their jewels and feathers and starched collars, sharp tongues forever held to the grindstone of scandal. So stupid, it seemed to her, that the sight of her on his arm would be a source of gossip at all. If her rank were a little lower, or his name more well known, if she were a second daughter or he unmarred by injury, there would be nothing noteworthy in it at all. But the society she moved in was all nuance, all detail. She wouldn’t have cared, if she was not so aware of the way people talked, and how it might get back to her father. If he decided there was something untoward taking place he would put a stop to it, whether he was correct or not. And Tanith did not want this stopped, whatever it happened to be. Even if it was nothing at all.

“Shall we go, then?” she asked, taking a step away from the alcove.

Mr Blackwall nodded. “Yes. Lead the way.”

Tanith did, making a careful path through the throng, smiling politely at the other guests as she slipped past them. All the while she felt the absence of his arm in hers, like a phantom; her hand twitched at her side, seeking out a touch that was not there. That was not permitted to be there. As she walked alone she wondered if he too felt the lack, if the space between them felt as empty to him as it did to her. Tanith did not look over her shoulder to meet his eyes, for she was certain she would find the answer there. She was not sure, yet, if she wanted to know it.


	6. Azalea

Blackwall was growing fond of Thornford village. In many ways it reminded him of the town where he had grown up, only a handful of miles to the north. Mining had been the primary occupation there, and the people were harder at the edges than the farmers of Thornford, but much else was the same. There was always a bustle on market day, always a strong vein of gossip running through every conversation, always an odd blend of the rough and the conservative.

It had taken the villagers a while to trust him — exacerbated, he was sure, by their sense he was more like them than the genteel society he was supposed to occupy — but those barriers were at last beginning to break down. When he walked around the village each morning, the motion easing the stiffness from his leg, people had begun to say hello to him as he passed. They enquired after his health, asked him whether he might visit their elderly relatives, told him how much they had enjoyed his sermon last Sunday. This last, Blackwall was sure, was mere politeness. He still had not managed to conjure up enough thoughts to write any words of his own, and last week an elderly man had fallen asleep halfway through the service.

Lady Lavellan had been sitting near to the man when this had happened, and Blackwall had been forced to avert his eyes from her. She was struggling valiantly to keep from laughing, and he knew that if he looked at her he would lose his composure as well. As though her merriment were catching.

That morning Thornford was busy despite the hour, with many of the locals already up and about. Once every quarter some of the traders from Chesterfield would bring their wares to the village, and from the crowds it seemed as though this was quite an event. Blackwall’s gaze wandered idly over the stalls as he passed, taking in rich fabric and horse tack, crockery and buttons, sturdy boots and fine tools. There was nothing in particular that he wanted, but it was pleasant to watch the village folk enjoying themselves, bartering with stallholders and arguing with their spouses, declaring they couldn’t afford this or that before buying it anyway.

So engrossed was he in this mercantile scene that he didn't notice Lady Adler standing nearby until she called his name. She was a common sight in the village, he had learned, not being the sort of woman who left her business to servants alone. Blackwall nodded in greeting and walked over to her, casting his eyes around for signs of her family.

“Good morning, my Lady,” he said. “The children aren’t with you today?”

“They’ll be here later,” she said. “I thought I’d steal an hour’s peace for myself before they rolled out of bed.”

“I imagine your house can be quite— lively, with such a large family.”

Lady Adler chuckled. “‘Lively’. Now isn’t that a polite way of putting it? It’s like living in a zoo, Mr Blackwall, and I am often unsure whether I am keeper or animal.”

Certain that there was no way to respond to that statement without causing offence, Blackwall changed the subject. “Are you looking for anything in particular, at the market?”

“Not really. I know Esther wants a dozen things but I haven’t a clue where to begin looking for them. I’ll have to leave that to her when she arrives. David wanted some book or other, I think, though there doesn’t appear to be much of a selection.”

“Are they all coming down, then?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” she nodded. “We always make a day of it. Lady Lavellan usually comes along too, but she’s not well, poor lamb.”

Blackwall felt his gut turn cold. “Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Oh no, not at all.” Lady Adler waved away his concern with a gloved hand. “Just a summer cold, I believe.”

“Well. That’s a relief.”

“Mm.” She looked up at him, narrowing her eyes in consideration. “Visiting the sick is part of your occupation, is it not? You should pay a call on her.”

“It is,” Blackwall said carefully. “Though I should not— I am not expected to do such things for those of your class, my Lady. Not unless they request it. I am certain Lady Lavellan is being well looked-after.”

“Be that as it may,” Lady Adler said. “Her father is in London on business, and there is no one else to keep her company in that great house. I am certain she would be pleased to have a visitor. There is no harm in calling on her as a friend, if not a clergyman.”

Blackwall didn’t think that it was as easy as Lady Adler made it sound. Paying a call on Lady Lavellan, while she was unwell and alone, seemed horribly presumptuous. It was possible that she would resent his coming while she was in such a fragile state. That she would interpret it as Blackwall assuming an intimacy between them, one which did not exist. There was every chance she may have him turned away at the door.

But still, Lady Adler was right in some respects. It was his duty to visit the sick, to tend to his flock. Lady Lavellan, despite her station, was one of them. She had attended nearly every Sunday service since he had taken up the livings, which was more than he could say for most in the village. He did owe her the same pastoral care he would give to any other parishioner.

More than that, though, Blackwall did not like to think of Lady Lavellan alone. Not when she was unwell, at a time where somebody should be there to take care of her. Even if Lord Lavellan had been at home, he did not seem the sort to bring tea and cold compresses to his daughter’s bedside. Perhaps Lady Lavellan would appreciate the gesture, even if she did not wish to see Blackwall in person.

He went back to the vicarage for a time after saying his goodbyes to Lady Adler, turning over her suggestion in his mind. It was disingenuous, really, to pretend that his motives for wishing to see Lady Lavellan were entirely altruistic. He had missed her company, this past week. She had another appointment to keep after the Sunday service the week before, and could not stay behind for their usual conversation. Blackwall had been surprised by how keenly he felt the absence of it.

Perhaps it should not have been surprising, given what had passed between them at Lady Keyes’s ball. Blackwall knew what people said about Lady Lavellan; that she was bolder than most titled women, an unapologetic coquette in society circles. He did not flatter himself that her attentions were anything unique, and nor did he resent her for it. It was her prerogative to flirt with whom she pleased. But still, there was a small, conceited part of him that insisted it was more than simple flirtation. After all, there were dozens of men in that ballroom upon whom she could have bestowed her attentions. Younger, stronger men, with fortunes and titles, who could offer her their arm without courting scandal. Yet she had chosen to sit the evening out with him, instead of dancing with them. That had to count for something.

He tried to put such thoughts from his mind as he made the short walk from the vicarage to Thornford Hall, but could not banish them entirely. Instead he kept remembering how she had looked when he had first seen her on the dancefloor; flushed and bright-eyed, laughing as she stepped in time to the music. The way her face had changed when she caught sight of him, her lips making an  _ o  _ of surprise. How her hand had felt on his shoulder.

Lord Lavellan’s butler, Lawson, greeted Blackwall at the door when he arrived.

“I’m afraid His Lordship isn’t here at the moment,” Lawson said. “May I take a message?”

“No, thank you,” Blackwall said. “I’m actually here to call on Lady Lavellan. I heard she wasn’t well, and I thought…” he trailed off, not entirely sure himself what he was thinking.

Lawson did not protest, though the way he raised one eyebrow said enough. “If you would be so kind as to wait inside, Mr Blackwall. I will go and see if Her Ladyship is taking visitors.”

Blackwall spent several long minutes waiting in the vast entrance hall, examining the paintings on the wall and berating himself for his own stupidity. He should not have come. Why would Lady Lavellan wish to see him, a relative stranger, when she was ill? What had gotten into him, that he had considered this a good idea? Lady Adler meant well, he was sure, but perhaps she had forgotten the difference in their classes. She might have called on Lady Lavellan without a thought, but it would doubtless be different for him.

When Lawson finally returned Blackwall swallowed, steeling himself for the inevitable.

“Through here, Mr Blackwall. Lady Lavellan is in the drawing room.”

“I’m sorry?”

Lawson frowned, his impressive eyebrows drawing together across his thin wedge of a nose. “Lady Lavellan is in the drawing room,” he repeated. “May I show you through?”

“Oh. Of course, yes. Thank you.”

The butler led Blackwall down a long corridor and gestured towards an open doorway, where a footman waited to announce him. The room beyond was vast, the high ceilings and tall windows reminding Blackwall of a cathedral. Despite the spring sunlight, there was something undeniably cool about the atmosphere. The furniture was fine, but austere, all dark woods and pale upholstery. It seemed a strange environment for Lady Lavellan, incongruous with her character.

Lady Lavellan herself was lying on a couch near the middle of the room, a woolen blanket over her legs. Her maid, Clara, sat on a chair nearby, busy with a piece of fancywork. When the footman called Blackwall’s name Lady Lavellan sat up, turning towards him with what seemed like some effort.

His heart ached to look at her. She was paler than usual, her freckled skin pink at her cheeks and the tip of her nose. There were dark circles around her eyes, which were half-lidded with fatigue, and her lips were chapped. Her hair, usually pinned neatly at the nape of her neck, fell in loose curls around her shoulders. Though she was clearly unwell, it made her no less beautiful.

Lady Lavellan smiled when she saw him, and though it was weak there was genuine warmth in it. “Come in,” she said. “Sit. Please.”

Blackwall did as she asked, pulling up a chair near to where she lay. “I hope I’m not imposing, my Lady,” he said. “When Lady Adler told me you were unwell I thought I should—”

“You needn’t justify yourself to me, Mr Blackwall,” she said. “I’m glad you came.”

“I’m sorry you’re not feeling your best,” he said. “Is there— is there anything I can do?”

“Keeping me company is enough,” she said. “It is tremendously boring, being ill. Every year I am hale all through the winter, when everyone around me is coughing and hacking away, and then as soon as spring comes around I get a ghastly cold that knocks the wind right out of me.” Her voice was husky, a little nasal. After she had finished speaking she blinked hard, then retrieved a handkerchief from the pocket of her dressing gown and sneezed into it. “Dear me. I must look a dreadful state.”

“Still better than I do on my best day.”

Lady Lavellan laughed, coughed, then sank back down onto the couch. “My. Are you here to pray for my health, then?”

“If you want me to,” he said.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said, propping herself up on her elbow to look at him. “But I feel miserable, Mr Blackwall. Being ill always sours my mood. Tell me something cheerful.”

He was quiet for a moment, trying to think what she might enjoy. “There was a market in town this morning,” he said. “Salesmen up from Chesterfield. The village was quite lively.”

“I know,” she said, her lips twisting into a smile. “I was supposed to be there, were I not confined to this room. You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“Sorry, my Lady,” he said, feeling his cheeks flush. “I didn’t think.”

“Well, never mind,” she said. “Try again.”

Blackwall was silent for longer this time, racking his brain for something he could say that wouldn’t involve putting his foot in his mouth. “I did bring you something,” he said. “I thought you might— if you were bored, at home, you might appreciate it.”

“Oh?” Lady Lavellan’s brows arched in curiosity. “May I see what you have brought me?”

Blackwall reached into the pocket of his coat and brought out a small book, which he handed over to her.

“The other night, when we were speaking of the war. You said you would like to understand more about it, how it came about. I can’t pretend this is a comprehensive history, but I thought it might— it might interest you. There are better books, of course, but I had none to hand.”

The moment Lady Lavellan took it from him, Blackwall felt ridiculous. Firstly, he was not sure why a dull volume of military history had seemed an appropriate gift for a young woman of the ton. Secondly, it occurred to him that Thornford Hall must possess a vast amount of books, many of them on the very subject that she had expressed interest in. What a fool he was.

Lady Lavellan turned the book over in her hands, opened the cover to examine the frontispiece, flicked through several pages. Then she looked up, beaming.

“I can’t quite believe you remembered,” she said. “Do you know how rare it is, sir, for a gentleman to actually mark what I say when I speak to him? Thank you. Really, I mean it.”

“You’re welcome,” Blackwall said. He hesitated for a moment and then, deciding he could not appear any more absurd than he already had, spoke what was on his mind. “I wondered whether I should bring you flowers,” he said. “But I guessed that you would have those well in hand.” To emphasise his point he gestured about the room, where several artful arrangements sat in vases.

Lady Lavellan looked at him for a long moment, her expression soft. “What flowers would you have brought me?”

“There’s little enough to choose from, in the village,” he said. “But there are some that grow in the churchyard, near the door to the vestry. They’re yellow, with leaves almost like lily-pads.”

“I know the ones,” she said, nodding slowly. “Celandine.”

“I’m pleased I didn't bring them now,” Blackwall said, looking again at the lavish bouquets of roses and lilies. “They’re no more than common weeds, really.”

“Do you know what celandine means, in an arrangement?”

“No,” he said. “Though I fear you’re about to tell me it’s horribly offensive.”

“It is not,” she chuckled. “They mean ‘joy to come’.”

“Well,” he said. “At least that’s not awful.”

“No, it isn’t.” Lady Lavellan looked at him, her eyes serious. “Bring the flowers next time, Mr Blackwall. Please.”

He nodded, his mouth too dry suddenly for him to speak.

“But I’m being rude,” she said, hauling herself up into a sitting position again. Turning to the door, she spoke to the footman. “William, will you fetch us some tea, please? Thank you.”

“I won’t outstay my welcome,” Blackwall said. “You must need rest.”

“I am resting now,” she said. “Are you so desperate to escape my company?”

“I wouldn’t say that, my Lady, no.”

“Then you must stay. I insist. Thought I hope you do not catch this beastly cold.”

A small price to pay, he thought, to spend the morning with her. As he watched Lady Lavellan shivered, though the room was warm, and pulled the blanket closer around her. She looked very small, suddenly, and very tired. Blackwall was overcome by the urge to put his arms around her, to sit beside her and let her share his warmth. It was a dangerous thought, and he allowed himself to indulge in it for far too long. Picturing her curled against his chest was all to easy, all too sweet. Just then he would have given his life to feel her breath at his throat, to see her hair tumbled across his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” Lady Lavellan asked. “You look a little off-colour. I hope you haven’t caught it already.”

“No,” Blackwall said, shaking his head to clear it. “I’m perfectly well.”

“Good,” she said. “Tell me more about the market, then. Make me horribly jealous of all the fun I missed.”

That, at least, he could do. Blackwall told her about the stalls there, the overheard conversations of the villagers, how he had seen the Adlers bickering as he passed them on his way to Thornford Hall. Lady Lavellan listened, as rapt as though he were reciting Shakespeare, taking an obvious, simple delight in these small tales. It humbled him, how much joy she found in such everyday things. As a clergyman, he was supposed to see God’s hand in all around him, to appreciate the world in its perfection. But in truth, he struggled with this demand. He had seen far too much of war to believe in perfection.

Or so he had thought, once. When Lady Lavellan lifted her head to smile at him — an artless, open smile, honest enough to take his breath for a moment — he could not help but wonder whether perfection was possible after all.


	7. Jonquil

For as long as she had lived in the country, May Day had been one of Tanith’s favourite celebrations. When she and her father had first moved to Derbyshire she had been a surly adolescent, numb with grief, and had thought their new rural home very dull and very stupid. She had pined for London, its balls and salons and dinner parties, its well-manicured parks and gardens, its elegant people.

Tanith had attended her first May Day festival only under duress. Her father, who was expected to make an appearance, dragged her along, insisting that she might enjoy herself if only she would try. She had tried her best to hate it, to despise the dancing and the games and the music, but, even as bad-tempered as she was, she could not resist its charms. There was something about welcoming the abundance of spring, seeing how merry it made the villagers, that touched her. Since then she had attended religiously, even after her father ceased his own visits.

It was a fine day for it this year, sunny and clear-skied, with enough of a breeze to make the heat tolerable. The recent spell of fair weather had woken Tanith’s summer freckles a month early, and her arms and chest were as speckled as a hen’s egg. She did not carry a parasol, as some ladies might, preferring to feel the sun’s warmth on her skin. As she wandered through Thornford towards the village green she took time to drink in the sights; two children playing with a hoop outside the butcher’s, a cat sleeping on a window ledge, the gentle rustle of the leaves on the churchyard yew.

All of this would be hers, one day. Should be. May not be. Over breakfast that morning Tanith’s father had reiterated his condition that she marry well, or else lose her inheritance. It pleased him, Lord Lavellan had said, that she was attending church as he asked, but that was only half of the bargain. He reminded her that a good match was essential if she were to remain his heir. Tanith had thanked him for his clarity, finished her tea, then left the room before she could say something sharp.

She had made the decision not to think about that matter today, though. It would not spoil her afternoon.

Tanith had arranged to meet the Adlers at a spot over near the millpond. The whole family was there, dressed in their summer linen, squabbling about something or other. Nico was already with them, not being obliged to breakfast with the Lavellans if he did not wish to— a liberty that Tanith envied greatly.

“Morning,” she called, waving at the family. “I’m not late, am I?”

“Only a little,” David said. “Which is quite early, by your standards.”

Devorah swatted him with her fan. “Behave.”

“Oh, that dress is beautiful,” Esther said, her eyes going wide as she stepped towards Tanith. “Is it from London?”

“It is,” Tanith said, pinching the pale fabric between her thumb and forefinger. “I’m quite fond of it myself.”

“Mother won’t let me order anything from London,” Esther said, rolling her eyes.

“All in good time.”

“You sound just like her.”

“Oh, leave her alone, Essie,” Tevi said, pinching her sister’s arm. “Complaining to everyone won’t make it happen any sooner.”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t like that once,” Tanith said. “I drove my poor mother half-mad when I was waiting to come out.”

“I wasn’t, actually,” Tevi said. “I was bloody terrified.”

Devorah scowled at her daughter. “Tevi Adler, _language_.”

For a while Tanith was pleased simply to stand there, drinking in the constant babble of her friends’ conversation. It was a welcome contrast to the silence of her home, a pleasant, noisy counterpoint to most of her waking hours. It always baffled her that warm, open Lady Adler was such a great friend of her father. She could not imagine two people more different in temperament.

“Ah, Mr Blackwall! Come and join us, won’t you?”

Devorah’s words startled Tanith to alertness. She felt something tug sharply in her chest, and had to fight to retain her composure as she turned to smile at the vicar. He looked different today, somehow, less tense than she had seen him before. The clothes he wore were lighter, not so austere. He might have been a country farmer come to the festival to show his produce.

“Good morning,” he said, nodding first to Lady Adler, then to Tanith. “I hope I haven’t interrupted.”

“Not at all,” Devorah said. “Actually, you’ve come at just the right time. I believe Lady Lavellan is about to tire of my family’s chit-chat.”

“I never could,” Tanith said. “But that’s not to say I don’t welcome the company, of course.”

“Perhaps you could show Mr Blackwall around,” Devorah said, “seeing as this is his first May Day with us?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Tanith looked up at the vicar, arching her brows. “It’s all rather pagan, isn’t it, maypoles and well dressing and what-have-you? He may not approve.”

Mr Blackwall laughed. “Perhaps I shouldn’t,” he said. “I had better see more of it, before I decide.”

“Then I will have to show you,” Tanith said. She turned back to Devorah, placing her hand on the older woman’s shoulder. “Am I meeting you all for luncheon?”

“Of course,” Devorah said. “Go on, now. You’ll be judging soon, don’t forget.”

Mr Blackwall gestured for Tanith to lead the way, and she began walking towards the festival proper. There were dozens of tables set up around the edge of the village green, heaving with vegetables and homemade jam, and stalls set up for tombola and other games. The maypole, hung with its long ribbons, stood tall and stately in the centre.

Tanith forced herself to concentrate very closely on her surroundings, spending a great deal of effort examining a display of asparagus, listening to a fiddler’s lively song. Anything to keep from looking at the man who walked beside her. She felt oddly shy around him, suddenly, almost tongue-tied. It was the first time they had seen one another since he had visited Thornford Hall — Tanith’s cold had kept her abed the next Sunday — and memories of that morning kept coming back to her. Tanith had felt so miserable that day, so sorry for herself, and she was certain that her gratitude had made her pathetic. When Lawson had come to tell her Mr Blackwall had come to call on her, she had almost burst into tears. So silly, to be so moved by so little.

“What are you judging?” Mr Blackwall asked, snapping her from her reverie.

“What? Oh.” Tanith shook her head. “Only the flower show. I do it every year.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“My mother used to judge it, years ago,” Tanith said. “Before I was born, even. When Devorah heard I’d inherited my mother’s love of arrangement, she suggested to the parish committee that I might take it over.” She was rambling, she knew, speaking too quickly and too much. About her mother, of all things. Not a topic she often spoke about, if she could help it.

“How does one judge a flower show, anyway?”

Tanith looked up at him, smiling. “Would you like to see?”

She led him to a line of tables at the far side of the green, where a dozen arrangements of flowers were lined up neatly on two covered tables. The standard was good this year, Tanith thought; the participants were growing more competitive with every spring.

Mr Norris, the committee member who oversaw the competitions, bowed to her as she approached.

“Lady Lavellan,” he said. “It’s good to see you, as always.”

“And you, Mr Norris.”

“I hope you’re pleased with the selection this year. We’ve managed to up the prize money, and I think everyone’s come with their best.”

“I can see that,” Tanith said, nodding in approval. “Do you have the card?”

“Of course, Your Ladyship.”

Mr Norris handed Tanith a long piece of card with each entry marked out for judging, and a freshly-sharpened stub of pencil.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m sure you’ve plenty to be getting on with. I’ll come and find you once I’ve finished.”

Mr Norris bowed again, then bustled away to the stall where the jams were being judged. Tanith held up the card so Mr Blackwall could see.

“There are a few different categories,” she said. “Colour, arrangement, the quality of the blooms, that sort of thing. I score each out of ten, and the bouquet with the most marks is the winner.”

“What’s that one?” Mr Blackwall asked, pointing at a category marked _LC_.

Tanith smirked. “Lady’s Choice. An old tradition of my mother’s. Some arrangements might have wonderful blooms, and tasteful colours, but they lack a certain something. Others might be a little wilted, or clumsily arranged, but they are charming nonetheless. She felt there should be a way to quantify that.”

“Why do I have the feeling that you take after her?”

“People are always commenting on that,” Tanith said. “Especially those who knew her when she was young. She was quite a wild thing, apparently. It always amazes me that she and father managed to be happy together.”

“They were happy, though?”

“Yes, I think they were,” Tanith said. “It wasn’t a love match, but I do believe they cared for each other. He took her death very hard.”

“It must have been difficult for you as well.”

Tanith looked up at him, then back down at the flowers. “Yes, it was,” she said. “Though I would rather not open that wound today, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry, my Lady. That was thoughtless.”

“Not at all,” she said. “I would rather people speak of her than pretend she never existed. Come, let me show you how to mark the flowers.”

They made their way along the length of the table, Tanith pausing in front of each arrangement while she considered her scores. She explained some of the marks she gave to Mr Blackwall, keeping her voice low so any hovering competitors could not eavesdrop. The vicar was obliged to lean close to hear her, his shoulder almost brushing hers. Near enough to catch the scent of him, all starch and wood resin, when the breeze blew in her direction. Tanith found herself unable to concentrate, fumbling with her pencil as she decided what marks to award each bouquet.

“So there we are,” she said when the scoring was finally done. “That is how one judges a flower show.”

“And do you have a winner?” Mr Blackwall asked.

“I do,” she said. “Though it was close. The standard was very high this year.”

“Which one?”

Tanith gave him a considering look. “Tell me which one you would have picked, first.”

“That one.” He spoke more quickly than she had thought he would, pointing to a bouquet of alstroemeria, freesias and sweet-william.

“Interesting. And why is that?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, shrugging. “I like it the best. I could not tell you why.”

Tanith pursed her lips. “You were looking at my card,” she said. “You knew it was the winner, didn’t you?”

“I promise you I didn’t,” Mr Blackwall said. He smiled down at her, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Was it really?”

“Yes, it was,” Tanith said, fighting to keep her own smile at bay. “You have an eye for it, clearly.”

“And what was your reason? I imagine you have a better justification than I do.”

“It’s attractive,” she said. “Delicate, though not prissy. The blooms are healthy. And, while I doubt the florist intended it, the selection has a coherent meaning. I always appreciate that.”

“Interesting,” he said. “I know little enough about such things, if you’d be kind enough to elaborate.”

Tanith tilted her head to one side, considering how best to phrase her thoughts. “There are many elements to it — devotion, gallantry, trust, that sort of thing. On their own they don’t mean much, but altogether it feels like a message.”

“The message being what, exactly?”

“It is not such an exact science as that.”

“Humour me.”

“Very well,” she said. “‘I wish I were worthy of you’. That would be the message, if I were to put it into words.”

She met his eyes then, and for a fleeting second saw something familiar there; that odd, searching look she had seen in Lady Keyes’ ballroom, when she placed her hand on his shoulder. It was like being asked a question, one which she could not begin to answer. Tanith felt the skin at the nape of her neck prickle.

“Tanith? Is that you?”

The sudden exclamation cut through the moment like a knife through butter. Dragging her gaze away from Mr Blackwall, Tanith turned to see a familiar face in the crowd. Miss Waters was one of Lord Sutherland’s many daughters, an occasional acquaintance who had come out the same season as Tanith. She was a tall woman, with honey-coloured hair and high cheekbones, and the dress she wore was the same forget-me-not blue as her eyes.

Though she had never much liked the woman — and deeply resented her intrusion — Tanith forced herself to smile anyway. “Fenella,” she said. “How lovely to see you.”

“Oh I know,” Miss Waters said, catching up her hand. “It’s been ages and ages. How are you?”

“Very well, thank you. And yourself?”

“Alright,” Miss Waters sighed. “Caroline’s down in London, which is a bore.” She looked over at Blackwall, her smile widening a little. “Are you going to introduce me?”

“Of course,” Tanith said, her muscles stiffening. “Miss Waters, this is Mr Blackwall. He’s taken over from Mr Arbuthnot.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” Miss Waters said, stepping neatly past Tanith. “We’re over the border, you know, or I’m sure we would have met before. How are you finding Thornford, Mr Blackwall?”

“It’s very much to my liking,” he said, nodding politely. “Thank you.”

“Do you ever get over to Leicestershire?” Miss Waters asked. “Only I’m sure papa would love to meet you. My father thinks very highly of the church.”

“That’s, ah—” Mr Blackwall cleared his throat. “That’s very kind, Miss, but my work here keeps me quite busy.”

“Such a pity,” Miss Waters said, glancing up through her eyelashes. “Luckily I spend a great deal of time here. I’m afraid I must dash, but I hope we have a chance to speak again soon.”

Miss Waters rested her hand on Mr Blackwall’s arm for a moment, and Tanith felt herself flush hot all over. Something twisted horribly in her stomach, leaving her nauseous, and for a moment she thought she might faint. She watched Miss Waters leave, only realising how hard she was clenching her jaw when it began to hurt.

“Well,” she said. “I suppose that will start happening more often.”

“What’s that?” Mr Blackwall said, his eyebrows lifting a little.

“You’re a respectable man with a good livings,” she said. “I wouldn’t be surprised if every third daughter in fifty miles started throwing themselves at you.”

He let out a quiet laugh, his cheeks colouring. “I hardly think so.”

“I do,” Tanith said. “Miss Waters certainly was. Or were you too polite to notice?”

“I’m afraid I must have been.”

“Be careful with that one,” she said, casting a glance to where Miss Waters had blended back into the crowd. “She isn’t— she would not be suitable for you.”

“Because she’s gentry?”

“No,” Tanith said, tugging at the buttons on her glove. “Her fathers’ holdings are humble at best. A clergyman would be a fine match for her, frankly. But Miss Waters herself is not— I would hazard to say she is not right for you, Mr Blackwall.”

“Oh?” he said, pale eyes narrowing. “And why is that?”

“She is— she is not—” Tanith sighed in exasperation, then looked around for something that might help her express her meaning. Her eyes landed on the display of flowers, and she gestured towards the closest bouquet. “Take the rose, for example.”

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“Listen to me a moment and you might,” Tanith said, a little impatiently. She lifted the nearest rose with her fingertips, stroking the petals with her thumb. “Yes, it is beautiful, and well made. It smells sweet, its colours are pleasing. There is nothing _wrong_ with it, exactly. But what is its meaning?”

Mr Blackwall watched her closely, a strange, small smile playing across his lips. “I imagine you’re better placed to answer that than I.”

“It stands for love, and passion, and romance, and a dozen other things that sound impressive but don’t mean very much at all. The rose is a very obvious flower. Everything about it is right there on the surface, just begging to be seen.”

“I see,” Mr Blackwall said. “You don’t believe a flower should be _obvious_ , then?”

“It can be what it likes. I simply do not think it interesting.” Tanith frowned at the display again, seeking out another bloom. She could not see precisely what she was looking for, but she did find a small patch of yellow flowers growing in the grass nearby. Plucking one between her fingertips, she held it out in front of her. “Here. The cowslip. That has far more to recommend it.”

“Such as?”

“It may not be as elegant,” she says. “But it is hardy, and beautiful in its own way. It can grow almost anywhere. And its meaning is subtle. More complex. It can mean comeliness, or grace. But also pensiveness, and rusticity, and healing. Divine love. It is easy to think a rose more appealing than a cowslip, but the cowslip has its own virtues. You should not overlook it.”

“This has been… educational,” Mr Blackwall said, his voice gentle. “But I’m not entirely sure how this relates to Miss Waters.”

Tanith had almost forgotten that this was the point of her lesson. “If I’m being honest, neither am I,” she said. “I only think that you should be cautious. The marriage market in the country is not large, and you are a new prospect. I would hate to see you married off to a woman who did not suit you.”

Mr Blackwall looked down at her hand, where she still held the yellow flower. “You speak as though this means a great deal to you, Lady Lavellan.”

“That is because it does.” Tanith formed each word carefully, her pulse rapid at her throat. “I am protective of the people I care about.”

“You care about me, then?”

“You know I do,” Tanith said, more sharply than she had intended. She winced at her own foolishness. “I’m sorry, Mr Blackwall, that was not well said.”

“It was perfectly said.”

Tanith looked up at him then, the shock of his words drawing her gaze upwards. His eyes were serious, the colour of the sky before snow, his brow creasing as he regarded her. For a moment Tanith forgot the crowd around them, the noise and bustle of the festival fading to silence. She could almost hear the air as it drew into her lungs, the blood rushing through her veins. There was not a word for the way she felt in that moment; something very like fear, and nothing like fear at all.

Then a bell rang, its brassy peal signalling the beginning of the maypole dance, and the stillness shattered around her. Suddenly the world was loud again, the clamour and music and colour rushing back in to fill the space between them.

“I need to hand the scores to Mr Norris,” Tanith said. “The winners are announced after the dance.”

“Of course,” Mr Blackwall said, disappointment flickering across his features. “Of course you must.”

Tanith felt suddenly guilty, as though she had said something callous. “Are you coming to Atterwick for luncheon?” she asked, hoping to restore what she had damaged.

“No,” he said. “I don’t think so. My leg is troubling me, and I doubt the walk would help.”

“I understand,” Tanith said. “Please, go and rest. I will not keep you.”

Mr Blackwall looked at her for a long moment, as though he might say something. Then he bowed a brief farewell, and set off towards the vicarage.

Tanith stood there for what felt like a long time, watching the village children dance around the maypole without really seeing them. They laughed as they ducked beneath the brightly-coloured ribbons, leaping in time to the fiddler’s reel. For the first time, Tanith could not make space in her heart for their merriment. There was not enough left to give.


	8. Honeysuckle

On days when he did not have services, Blackwall tried to take a walk around the village at least twice. If he remained immobile for too long his leg became stiff and unwieldy, and he found sitting alone in the vicarage for extended periods of time often put him in a dark mood. So he made the effort to rise from his chair and take a stroll around Thornford every morning and afternoon, even if he did not much feel like it. He always felt better for this small piece of exercise, and exchanging a few words with the people in the village always left him in a better humour.

Ordinarily the route he took did not stray far from the church, but this afternoon he had ranged a little further. The weather was clement, perfumed spring bleeding gently into balmy summer, and his leg was not troubling him as much as usual. Today he had walked as far as Northwood Pond, a feature of the local landscape which had often been recommended to him since his arrival in Thornford. In truth it was not a pond at all, but a reservoir surrounded by densely wooded hills. It was a pleasant place to walk, cool beneath the dappled shade of the trees. The afternoon sunlight coruscated on the surface of the water, and little birds fluttered and cheeped in the underbrush.

It was quiet there, but when Blackwall rounded a turn in the path he heard the sound of voices carrying across the water. Looking for its source, he saw a section of shoreline that was set a little further back than the lake around it, hitherto concealed by the trees. A group of people were sitting on the grass there, and a small rowing boat was floating in the shallows. Blackwall tried to make himself as inconspicuous as possible so as not to disturb them, keeping to the edge of the path, but as he moved closer he realised that he knew the group.

Sitting on checked blankets spread out across the grass were a number of faces that he recognised; Baron Adler and his sister Tevi, the Duke of Havershire, Lord Lavellan’s steward. And her. Blackwall’s heart caught in his throat as he saw Lady Lavellan’s profile, the sight achingly familiar now. She was saying something to Tevi, her hands moving rapidly as she spoke, and the sunlight gleamed softly on her curls.

They had hardly seen one another since the first letter. After the May Day festival Lady Lavellan had finally made good on her promise to provide flowers for the church, turning up unannounced one morning with servants carrying a dozen bouquets. One smaller arrangement she gave to Blackwall directly, informing him that it would brighten up the vicarage. It was only later, when he examined the flowers more closely, that he noticed the envelope tucked away between the stems.

Blackwall had opened it with shaking hands, read the lines in her looping hand a full three times without pausing. There was nothing inappropriate about the content of the letter — she listed meanings for some of the blooms, said how much she had enjoyed his company at the festival — but the mere fact of its existence was shocking enough. Unmarried people of an acquaintance as recent as theirs were not supposed to write to one another, not in private missives. Even a small correspondence such as this could ruin her.

For several days Blackwall had considered what to do about the letter. Should he hide it, feed it to the flames in the hearth, never acknowledge its existence? Or did she anticipate a reply? And if she did, how on earth would he get one to her, when Lord Lavellan’s butler would be the first to see any post sent to Thornford Hall?

He agonised over the decision for the best part of a week, but in the end his will was not strong enough for him to remain silent. Blackwall wrote a response, as carefully worded and restrained as her letter had been, and when it was done he tucked it inside a hymn book and placed it in front of Lady Lavellan’s usual pew. On Sunday, when he told the congregation which page to turn to, he had watched as she found the letter. Her eyes widened, just a little, then she slipped it carefully inside her shawl. If he had not been watching so closely he never would have seen it.

This was a dangerous path they were treading. Blackwall had come to Thornford for a new start, with every intention of keeping his head low and his life as quiet as possible. At first his attraction to Lady Lavellan had seemed like folly, an infatuation that would eventually pass. But as the weeks went on his regard for her had only grown stronger, more complicated, and with every day that passed Blackwall became more certain that his feelings were reciprocated. He knew that he should not indulge it. Every time they spoke he vowed to put a stop to it, to ensure that whatever was between them was allowed to go no further, and every time he could not bring himself to follow through on that promise. He felt weak when he was around her, his defences crumbling with every word she spoke, every moment when his eyes met hers. It had been a long time since Blackwall had last felt this way about a woman. He was not sure he ever had.

As soon as he realised who the people by the lakeside were, he stopped dead in his tracks. He should turn around, head back to the village before any of them marked him. But it was too late for that. Almost at the same moment he resolved to leave, David Adler stood up and waved in his direction.

“Mr Blackwall!” he called. “Join us, won’t you?”

Blackwall hesitated, intending to make his excuses and leave, but he would have felt a fool shouting across the lake in such a way. Instead he decided that it would be easier simply to go over, to say a few polite hellos before departing. He did not have to stay long. Only a minute, only long enough to greet them. Then he would go back to the vicarage, back to the quiet and safety of the church.

When he drew closer he saw that the group had been having a picnic. There were several wicker baskets placed around the blankets, each spilling over with bread and cheese and cold fowl, and the grass nearby was scattered with apple cores and the stones of plums.

The young nobles had more or less eschewed their finery for their day out, lounging on the ground in their shirtsleeves with their collars unbuttoned. Lady Lavellan’s dress was simple today, and her slippers and stockings lay discarded beside her. Her bare feet were small, freckled, her arches tensing as she curled her toes in the grass. The sight of that alone sent Blackwall’s cheeks burning, and he forced himself to look over at David as he came to a stop nearby.

“I can’t stay,” he said quickly. “I just thought I— I should come and say hello.”

“Didn’t think your lot worked on Saturdays,” the Duke said. She was leaning back on her elbows, her booted feet crossed at the ankle.

“There aren’t any services,” Blackwall admitted. “But there’s plenty else to keep me busy.”

“Oh, you’ll stay for a while though, won’t you?” David said. “We’ve not had weather like this in ages. Seems a shame to waste it doing— well, I don’t know. Whatever it is clergymen do.”

“He’s being polite,” Nico said, his green eyes narrowing. “He just doesn’t want to admit that he’s scandalised by our indecent behaviour.”

Blackwall probably should have been. It was not the done thing, he supposed, for young lords and ladies to lay about in the grass unchaperoned, their coats and cravats flung aside. But in truth, this had not even occurred to him until it was pointed out. His own youth had been full of such afternoons, and no one had ever thought the slightest thing of it. It seemed ridiculous to him that being in possession of money and titles should prevent people from such innocent pleasures.

“You won’t say anything to mother, will you?” Tevi asked anxiously. “I don’t think she minds, but she doesn’t _not_ mind, you know?”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Blackwall said. “Cross my heart.”

“So will you join us, then?”

It was the first time Lady Lavellan had spoken. Her voice was husky, sweet as caramel, and though her tone was almost lazy Blackwall was certain he heard an entreaty there.

“I really mustn’t—”

“Oh, stop it,” the Duke said, rolling her eyes. “You’ll really not stay for a drink?”

“Yes, please do.” David clapped him on the shoulder, smiling. “You’ll bring a bit of respectability to proceedings.”

“God knows we need that,” Nico snorted.

As friendly as he was with these people, Blackwall had not forgotten their relative stations. He was a clergyman, being presented with an invitation by lords and ladies; it was possible that they would find a refusal offensive.

“Very well,” he said. “I suppose I wouldn’t mind taking the weight off my feet for a minute. Thank you.”

Before he could take a step Lady Lavellan had moved along the blanket slightly, making a space for him. The movement was so fluid and so casual that to an outside observer it would have likely seemed coincidental; Blackwall was sure that it was not. The way she had engineered it meant that there was no clear place to sit other than beside her. He felt wretched and grateful all at once, delighted that she wanted to be near him but wishing desperately that she did not.

Blackwall sat down next to her, wincing at the pain in his leg, and accepted a bottle that David passed over to him. When he took a swig he was surprised to find that it was beer; he had not thought the gentry stooped to such things. It was pale and hoppy, cool from the shade, the perfect refreshment for an afternoon like this. He took another sip and, forgetting his company for a moment, wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“Are you coming to the Erskine's ball next week?” David asked him.

“I don’t believe so,” Blackwall said. “I haven’t had an invitation.”

Lady Lavellan rolled her eyes. “Well that’s no great shock. If there’s a greater snob in England than Lady Erskine I’ve yet to meet her.”

“Don’t feel badly,” Nico said. “I haven’t had an invitation either.”

The Duke shrugged. “Or me.”

“What?”

The Adler siblings spoke in unison, looking at the Duke with mingled interest and horror.

“My word,” Lady Lavellan said, a wicked little smile on her lips. “What have you done to offend her?”

“That’s not a question you should be asking me in front of a vicar,” the Duke said, flashing her teeth.

“Oh, well now I really must know.”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Honestly,” Blackwall said. “You all treat me like I’ll burst into flames at the first sign of impropriety.”

“Won’t you?” Tevi asked, laughing. “Isn’t it your job to chastise us all for our wicked ways?”

“You forget,” Blackwall said. “I was a soldier before I was a clergyman.” He gave Tevi and David significant looks. “I promise you, a few aristocrats gossiping at a picnic isn’t going to shock me.”

The group erupted into delighted laughter, clearly impressed that a country vicar would be so bold around them. Blackwall knew he shouldn’t encourage this, but frankly it was a relief to speak freely after months of watching his words.

“Well, that’s us told,” David said. “Though you ought to be careful. If you keep insisting you’re impossible to shock, Sera will do her best to prove you wrong.”

The Duke snickered, nodding. “You might have fought on the continent, Mr Blackwall, but I _lived_ there.”

“Is that so?” he asked.

“Indeed it is. Basel, Turin, Paris.”

“English gentry in Paris? That can’t have gone down well.”

“Better than you’d think.”

Blackwall was surprised at how easy it was to fall into conversation with his companions. He would have thought himself too common for their society — not to mention too old — but this did not seem to concern them. It seemed that he had wandered into a place outside of class and status, a subversive little world that these five had created for themselves. He knew a little about their connections from what Lady Lavellan had told him — she and Nico had known one another since childhood, as had the Duke and the Adlers — and it seemed as though the five of them were much closer than he had previously suspected. He could imagine the appeal of such liberation, in a world that was buttoned up so tightly.

Though he had only intended to stay for a few minutes, soon almost an hour had passed. At first he had looked for openings, places where it might have been appropriate to take his leave, but the group exchanged words so rapidly that he did not have a chance to interject. After a while he simply ceased searching for them. It was pleasant to sit in the sun, with the scent of the spring flowers in the air, and pass the time in good company.

He watched in amusement as David plucked grapes from a bunch and tossed them in the air, attempting — often unsuccessfully — to catch them in his mouth. Nico lay on his back with his eyes closed, smoking a cigar that smelled of rich earth and spices, looking for all the world like he was asleep until he cut into a conversation with some sharp quip. The Duke and Tevi spoke to one other with an easy patter, the way that old friends sometimes do, so swiftly and with so much shorthand that at times it seemed like another language.

Blackwall did not drink often these days, and when the bottle of beer was half-empty he found himself pleasantly lightheaded. Lady Lavellan had been fairly quiet since he sat down, but at one point she leaned over and took the beer from him. She lifted the bottle to her mouth, and took a long, slow swallow. The thought of her lips kissing the place that his had touched made Blackwall feel giddy for a moment, his heart skipping sideways in his chest. Lady Lavellan handed the bottle back without a word, her eyes only flickering to meet his for the briefest moment.

A little while later David asked if anyone wanted to take the boat out. Nico said that he would join him, though the others declined. The two of them wandered off in the direction of the lakeshore, laughing about something, hands held up to shield their eyes from the sun. Not long afterwards the Duke and Tevi scrambled to their feet, brushing crumbs of pastry from their breeches.

“We’re going to take a walk up the hill,” Tevi said. “There’s supposed to be some old ruin up there, a fort or something. Do you fancy it?”

“I’m not sure I’d be up to it,” Blackwall said, rubbing his injured knee. “I’ve overdone it today as it is.”

“I’ll stay too,” Lady Lavellan said. “This dress wouldn’t last five minutes scrambling up there.”

“Suit yourself,” the Duke said.

She and Tevi wandered off then, heading for the woods. Blackwall could have sworn he felt something in the air shift the moment they were out of earshot, the moment he and Lady Lavellan were alone together. It was as if the wind had stilled suddenly, the sounds of the insects and the distant splashes of oars in the water growing louder, the air heating just a little.

“So,” Lady Lavellan said, turning to face him. “You’ve seen us all out of character now. I hope you aren’t too disappointed.”

“Why would I be?”

“Oh, you know,” she sighed. “We’re supposed to be these perfect models of etiquette, aren’t we? My father would go berserk if he knew I’d done anything so scandalous as sitting on the floor.”

“It must drive you mad,” Blackwall said. “All those rules.”

“Yes,” she said, a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. “It does.”

She reached down and picked a strawberry from a half-full punnet. Holding it by the stalk, she put the ripe fruit between her lips and hulled it with her teeth. The juice stained her lips red, several drops rolling down her fingers. Blackwall had to fight the wild urge to lean in and suck them clean.

_I cannot recall when I last enjoyed someone’s company so_. Those words, in her looping script, had burned themselves into his mind. He wished he had responded more boldly in his reply to her letter, had told her how true that statement was for him as well. Sitting here with her like this, in perfect, comfortable silence, was the sweetest thing he had ever known. He could have stayed there, watching her twist blades of grass between her fingers, until the world crumbled to dust around them.

“I envy you sometimes,” Lady Lavellan said. “Is that odd?”

“It’s unusual, certainly,” Blackwall said. “You have your youth, your health, your fortune. I’ll admit I can’t see what it is about me that would be worthy of envy.”

“You have known freedom,” she said. “You have gone places, done things. Lived a life unfettered by all the silly rules of the aristocracy.”

“Ah,” he said. “So you envy me as I once was. I’m afraid I’m as bound by those rules as you are these days.”

“I suppose that’s true,” she said. “More’s the pity.”

Lady Lavellan closed her eyes a moment, tipping her face up towards the sun. It burnished her skin, turning tawny to gold, picking out the shine of her lips, her eyelashes. Then she leaned forward and suddenly yelped in pain, her hand flying to the back of her head.

“Are you alright?” Blackwall asked quickly.

“I think my clasp is caught,” she said. “Can you look and see?”

She turned her back to him, and Blackwall saw straight away where her necklace had tangled in her hair.

“It is,” he said. “Do you want me to…?”

“Please.”

Blackwall fought to keep his hands steady as he reached out to unhook the silver clasp from her curls. He moved slowly, careful not to tug her hair as he worked the knots free. Lady Lavellan sat perfectly still, patiently, her head bowed a little as she waited for him to finish. Her hair was impossibly soft between his fingers, the warm scent of her skin near-overwhelming.

He should not have done it. But he could have no more stopped himself than resolved to cease breathing. When the clasp was loose Blackwall hesitated for a moment, then brushed his knuckles over the nape of her neck.

Lady Lavellan’s sharp intake of breath struck fear into his heart. For a moment he was certain he had misjudged himself, that she was furious at his presumption. But then she turned back towards him, and the tension in her body was that of an animal poised to pounce, not to flee. Her dark eyes were shining, perfectly serious.

It would have been so easy to kiss her then. The Duke and Tevi were away in the forest, David and Nico a mere speck on the horizon. No one would have seen, no one needed to know. He could have closed the space between them and pressed his lips to hers, cupped her cheek in the palm of his hand, felt the curves of her crushed against his body. She would have allowed it, he was sure of that. Welcomed it even. He could return home that night flush with the knowledge of how she tasted.

But some small part of him, the piece that was not yet wretched with wanting her, held him back. It was not that he cared for propriety, not in that moment — he had all but forgotten such trivialities — but he knew that if he kissed her then, he would not be able to stop. One kiss they might be pardoned for, might choose to forget if they so wished. But it would never just be one kiss, not with the way that they looked at one another. And anything more would lead to ruin, for her more so than him. He cared for her too much to allow that.

Blackwall shifted to the other side of the blanket, on the pretence of taking a pastry from one of the baskets. He felt more than saw Lady Lavellan’s disappointment, the life that faded from her countenance. It was painful, knowing that he was the cause of it. But so it must be.

“Are you going to the ball David was speaking of?” Blackwall said, desperate to pick up a thread of conversation before Lady Lavellan had the chance to acknowledge what had just happened.

She was silent for a moment before speaking. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I believe I will. I haven’t had occasion to dance in a while. Lady Erskine’s parties are always rather dull, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“I hope it proves more diverting than you expect, then.”

“I thought I might come over to the church next week,” she said. “With some more flowers. The last lot must be wilting by now, in this heat.”

There was another statement beneath the one she spoke. Blackwall remembered the letter, tucked between stems of carnation and heliotrope, and knew another would be forthcoming. He should stop this now, should dash her hopes before they were allowed to blossom. But, weak as he was, he could not. Kissing her in a public place would have been madness, and so he could muster the will to resist it; rejecting something so chaste as a letter would have required more moral fortitude than he possessed.

“I would like that very much, my Lady.”

“Good.” Some of the vitality returned to Lady Lavellan’s face, her eyes gleaming once more. “I shall have to start pondering the arrangements.”

If Blackwall had been better-suited to his vocation — in fact, if it had been a vocation at all — he might have been able to better understand the sins he was committing. To name them, know their punishment, quote a dozen verses to dissuade him from this path. But he made a poor man of God, and such knowledge was obscure to him. All he knew was that it was wrong, and that he should not pursue it any further.

He knew this, in his heart. If only it felt that way, too.


	9. Mimosa

Tanith was in the conservatory, working on an arrangement for the drawing room, when she heard a knock at the glass door. She looked up to see Tevi standing outside, her coat held over one arm and her cheeks flushed with spots of pink.

Setting down the lilies she had been trimming, Tanith went over to let her in.

“Hello,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you today.”

“I took a ride up to the village,” Tevi said, stepping inside and smoothing her hair from her forehead. “Thought I’d drop in.”

“You’re welcome, of course,” Tanith said. “Clara, would you fetch some tea?”

“I can’t stay I’m afraid,” Tevi said. “I’ve a hundred things to do this afternoon. I just came to ask if you’d have dinner with us tonight. With David down in London the place is feeling rather empty.”

“I’d love to,” Tanith said. “Should I dress for the occasion?”

Tevi shook her head. “Nothing formal. Only a handful of us, no need to put yourself out.”

“Is Her Grace coming?”

“No, she’s visiting friends in Nottingham.” Tevi glanced across at Tanith, then shifted her coat onto her other arm. “Mother suggested I ask Mr Blackwall, though. To make up the numbers.”

“I expect he will appreciate that,” Tanith said, keeping her voice as neutral as she could manage. “I’m sure the food at Atterwick is much better than what he’s used to.”

“Yes, quite.” Tevi leaned back against the long table, her head tilting to one side. “Tan,” she said. “Is there— is there something going on, between the two of you?”

“Between me and the vicar?” Tanith forced a laugh. “How could there be?”

“It’s only that you seemed very… comfortable together, at the picnic,” Tevi said. “When I thought about it, you did at May Day as well. Lady Keyes’ ball, too. And you’ve started going to church all of a sudden—”

“Honestly, Tevi!” Tanith said, taking up her shears again. “Aren’t I allowed to have a friend?”

“Is that all he is, Tan?” Tevi asked seriously. “Because you know I don’t give a fig about all the title nonsense. You’d have no judgement from me.”

“Comforting as that is, I’m afraid you’re barking up the wrong tree.” Tanith snipped the stem of a chrysanthemum and added the flower to the vase in front of her. “He’s a nice man, and I enjoy his company. That is all.”

“Well. That’s that cleared up, then.” Tevi shook out her coat and shrugged it on, then checked her pocket watch. “Hell, I’m late. See you later, then? Six o’clock?”

“I’ll be there,” Tanith said. “Have fun on your errands.”

“Doubtful, but I’ll try.”

Tevi let herself out of the conservatory, and Tanith returned her attention to the flowers laid out on the table in front of her. She wasn’t entirely sure why she had lied to her friend. If you had asked her earlier whether she would, she would have doubtless said no; that she had nothing to hide, and would always be honest with her loved ones. But as soon as Tevi asked the question Tanith had panicked, scrambling to cover the truth. It seemed unthinkable, suddenly, that anyone should know about her and Mr Blackwall.

Not that there was anything to know. There had been affectionate words between them, certainly, both spoken and committed to paper, but nothing to suggest a formal courtship. She had barely even touched him, in all these months. Sometimes Tanith would recall the way his arm had felt beneath her fingers, the brush of his knuckles on her neck, and the skin there would burn with remembering. No man had ever had such an effect on her before. Not the cultured London gentleman with their fine clothes and sharp conversation, not the country Lords who wooed her with gifts and sweet words. She had cared for many of them, had even been intimate with some, but not a single one had elicited the sort of madness that was upon her now. Tanith seemed to think of nothing else but him, from the moment she woke in the morning to when she fell asleep at night.

Why, then, could she not share such a thing with her dearest friend? She considered this as she stripped the leaves from flower stems and trimmed them to height, arranging the blossoms at careful angles. Tanith supposed it would make everything too real, too urgent, if she shared the secrets of her heart with another. For as long as only she knew the truth — or, at least, the depth of the truth — there would never need to be consequences. She would not have to confront the future, and what would become of this wordless _something_ that had grown between her and the vicar these past few months.

Tanith finished the bouquet, adding pieces of foliage and greenery to support the blooms and make it more pleasing to the eye, then stepped back to consider her handiwork. Lilies and chrysanthemums in buttery shades of yellow, interspersed with sprigs of lavender. A strange bouquet, really, with an odd, contradictory meaning. Happiness, gratitude and healing on one side; dejection, falsehood and sadness on the other. It rather suited her mood, all things considered.

She spent the rest of the day in a daze, wandering from room to room, picking up a book or a letter she was writing only to set it down again a moment later. The hours until six o’clock crept by with interminable slowness, dragging out for what felt like months. Nico was in London with David, and so she could not even bother him as she often did when she was bored. Briefly she considered going to see her father in his study, but dismissed that idea as quickly as it had come. She was a long way from being that desperate.

Eventually the clocks struck four, and Tanith decided that it was late enough in the day to begin getting ready. She had Clara draw her a bath and set out a dress that was a particular favourite of hers, pale blue muslin with embroidery at the collar. Tanith lay soaking in the bath for a long time, staring at the ceiling while the water turned tepid against her skin.

A melancholy mood was upon her, and she could not seem to shake it. Tevi’s earlier question had left her feeling fragile, uncertain. Until now she had been able to tell herself that this was a flirtation, something wicked to amuse herself with, a dalliance she could discard when it ceased to interest her. But if that had been the case, she would have told Tevi so immediately. Tanith had never been shy about sharing the more salacious details of her private life with her closest friend. Yet this felt different, somehow. Something precious, that she could not bear to cheapen by speaking it aloud.

The implications of that were vast, terrifying. Far more than she was able to deal with just then.

Despite her full day of waiting Tanith somehow managed to lose track of the time, and when she left Thornford Hall she was already running quite late. She climbed into the carriage at around five minutes to six, and by the time she arrived outside Atterwick House it was almost twenty past. When she knocked on the door Parker showed her straight to the dining room, where, he informed her, the family had been waiting for some time.

“I’m sorry I’m so late,” Tanith said as she swept in. “I didn’t realise how late it was.”

“Never mind that,” Devorah said from her seat at the head of the table. “Sit down before cook comes up here and treats us all to a lecture on wasting her food.”

It did not escape Tanith’s notice that Mr Blackwall had been seated beside her. She waited until she sat down before looking at him, smiling briefly before turning back to Devorah. She did not trust herself with any more than that.

They were a small party that night, with only the Adler women in attendance. The family often let much of conventional etiquette slip when Tanith joined them, eschewing formal service and appropriate dinner conversation, but she was surprised to see them practice the same casual habits around the vicar. Devorah had them serve themselves from platters in the middle of the table rather than calling up the footmen, and Tevi and Esther were happily chatting away about their day’s errands. It made Tanith wonder whether they spent time with Mr Blackwall without her, and had grown closer to him than she had realised. She was unsure how she felt about that prospect; pleased, she thought. He had always struck her as a lonely man, and if he was making friends in Thornford she was glad of it.

The size of their group meant that there was little opportunity for private conversation. It was only over dessert, when the Adler women began squabbling about something or other, that Mr Blackwall spoke directly to Tanith for the first time.

“Thank you for the flowers,” he said. “I’m sorry I was out when you came.”

“That’s quite alright,” Tanith said, dabbing at her lips with a napkin. She had delivered the blooms the previous morning, and had been disappointed to find him absent. “I’m sure you had important things to do.”

“I was visiting the cottage hospital,” Mr Blackwall said. “But I am sorry anyway.”

Tanith opened her mouth to speak, but fell silent when she felt something brush against her fingertips. Glancing down, she saw Mr Blackwall holding something under the table. An envelope. Blushing furiously, Tanith took it from him and concealed it quickly beneath the napkin on her lap.

“Wasn’t that a little daring?” she asked, taking a sip of her wine.

“Perhaps,” he said. “But I felt you deserved a swift reply.”

Tanith felt a wave of relief that her letter had made it to him at all. She had debated the wisdom of leaving it in the empty church, lest it fall into someone else’s hands, but in the end she had decided to take the chance. It was unsigned, of course, but anyone who knew her script might have identified it. And it was… slightly less restrained than her first missive. Nothing worthy of scandal, but she had been more effusive than was proper.

_I slept in my necklace last night_ , she had written. _After that afternoon, I could not bear to remove it_. The words would not be noteworthy, to anyone who did not know their context. To anyone but him.

“I hope you understand how inconvenient this is,” she said. “I will not be able to read it until I return home.”

“For that I apologise,” Mr Blackwall said. “But Sunday seemed such a long time away.”

“Yes,” Tanith said. “It always does.”

By some miracle she managed to fold the letter up and hide it inside her bodice without being seen, during the rush of movement as they rose from the table and the servants came to clear away the plates. She could feel the stiff paper pressing to her breast, above her heart, as they followed Lady Adler through to the drawing room.

Almost as soon as they entered Esther took up a place in the centre of the Persian carpet. She began taking slow, careful steps from side to side, her arms held up in front of her.

“Essie,” Tevi said, collapsing into an armchair. “What on earth are you doing?”  
“I’m practicing the waltz,” Esther said. “Since mother won’t hire a dancing master, I’m afraid I must teach myself.”

Devorah sighed. “Esther, you are fully two years from coming out. You do not require a dancing master so soon.”

“Alice Drummond has one.”

“Alice Drummond is a spoiled little chit, and no better than she ought to be.”

“Oh mother, don’t say things like that—”

Then they were off bickering again, and Tanith laughed to herself as she sank onto one of the low couches. It felt like aeons since she had been as young as Esther, naive of the world and desperate for her first season. Her upbringing had been rather different, of course; being raised in London she had been exposed to the ton far earlier, and the expectations were placed upon her were much higher. Expectations she had exceeded, if she did say so herself. Despite her small stature and her sharp tongue she had been something of a sensation, receiving no fewer than four proposals before the summer’s end.

She may have even accepted one, if her mother had not passed so suddenly. Bianca Lavellan’s death had marked the abrupt end of Tanith’s life in London, and of anything she might reasonably call a family. Were it not for the Adlers, she wasn’t sure what she would have done. What might have become of her.

“Can you dance, sir?” Esther said, turning suddenly to Blackwall. “Will you show me?”

“I’m afraid I can’t oblige you, Miss,” he said, gesturing to his injured leg. “I’m not built for it, these days.”

“But it’s ever so slow,” Esther protested. “Hardly faster than walking!”

“Oh, leave the poor man alone,” Tevi chuckled. “He didn’t come here to entertain us like a performing monkey.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Esther said. “She’s just being rotten.”

Mr Blackwall shook his head. “I wouldn’t know where to begin, Miss Adler.”

“But you must do,” she said, her brow creasing. “You’re a gentleman, aren’t you? You have to know how.”

The vicar cleared his throat. “It’s been a long time since I had the occasion to dance,” he said. “It’s funny how quickly you forget these things.”

“Lady Lavellan is quite the dancer,” Devorah said from across the room. “I’m certain she could remind you. Would you be content to observe, Esther, if not to participate?”

Esther nodded enthusiastically, skipping over to a nearby chair and perching on the edge of it, her eyes wide with anticipation.

Tanith looked over to Mr Blackwall. He appeared as uncertain about this turn of events as she was, his mouth slightly open and his cheeks flushed above his beard. But there was nothing either one of them could do about it. Lady Adler was their host, and neither of them were in a position to deny her.

Slowly they rose to their feet, and walked out to the spot that Esther had recently occupied. They stood several feet apart for a moment, both looking everywhere in the room but at each other.

“Tevi,” Devorah said. “Let us have a little music, will you?”

Tanith watched Tevi get out of her chair and walk over to the pianoforte. She pulled up the stool in front of it and played a few experimental notes, then slipped into a slow, melodic tune.

“I haven’t got the faintest clue what I’m doing,” Mr Blackwall said, his voice low enough that only Tanith could hear.

“Don’t panic,” she said, though her own heart was already racing. “Just do as I say.”

Tanith stepped forward, reaching up to place her hand on his shoulder. She had not accounted for how much taller he was than her, how close to one another they would need to stand. Tentatively he reached out to rest his hand on her back, and Tanith had to close her eyes for a moment while she regained her composure. She could feel the warmth of his touch through the fabric of her gown, his thumb maddeningly close to her skin. It took everything in her not to lean back against his palm, to arch against him like a cat.

“Take my hand,” she whispered, lifting her other arm to the side.

Mr Blackwall did as she asked. That in itself was almost more than she could bear. As it was a casual dinner, Tanith had not worn gloves that evening. The vicar’s palm was rough against her skin, his fingers calloused where they enveloped hers, so very different from the soft gentlemen’s hands she was used to. These were hands that had laboured, that had known life and hardship in all its forms.

For the first time, Tanith let herself glance up to meet his eyes. He looked dazed, as though he had just woken up from a long sleep. She could see the way his chest rose and fell with each breath.

“Now,” Tanith said. “Step forward on your left foot. Slowly.”

He did so, and Tanith moved to mirror him. She was achingly aware of how close they were; the length of his body in parallel to hers, the solid weight of his arm beneath her hand, his fingers laying against the back of her ribs.

“Now right. Now pull your feet together. There.”

Tanith spoke quietly, aware that the Adlers’ eyes were still on them. She steered him gently as they danced, leading in reverse, letting the memory of a thousand other waltzes guide her through the steps. His movements were not elegant, but the others would ascribe that to his injury. Tanith was not so certain. He danced cautiously, as though every position were new to him. It was as Esther said; gentlemen did know such things, and it was curious that Mr Blackwall did not.

This thought did not alight on her mind for long, though. She was too focused on the warmth of him, closer than he had ever been allowed before, his nearness leaving her half-drunk with longing. The folded envelope pressed against her flesh, another sharp reminder of how far she had fallen. All the while Mr Blackwall looked at nothing but her. His eyes were soft, half-lidded as he stared down at her face. She felt wrenched open under that gaze, as open and legible as the pages of a book. There was nothing she could keep hidden from him, she thought, not in that moment. He could reach out and pluck her heart from her chest if he wished it. And she would let him, gladly.

They could have danced for a minute or an hour, and Tanith would have been none the wiser either way. Eventually she became aware that the song was drawing to a close, that soon it would be all over. She could not stand the thought of being apart from him, but knew that there was no other choice. When the music began to slow she moved her hand in his, just slightly, just enough to stroke a slow circle on his palm with her thumb. She felt his muscles tense at the touch, and knew he understood it for what it was; a message. _Do not let me go_.

Tevi finished playing with a flourish, and the moment the music stopped the spell was broken. Tanith stepped back from Mr Blackwall, and it was like tearing away a limb. The Adlers’ applause sounded hollow to her ears, the candles around the room flickering wildly in her peripheral vision. Her hands, burning with heat where she had touched him, were already beginning to cool.

“Excuse me,” she said. “I don’t feel quite well. I’m afraid I must take some air.”

Her feet carried her away from the drawing room almost without her mind’s consent, leading her through the corridors of Atterwick House. Blood roared in her ears, and she could feel her heart racing wildly in her chest. She hardly knew where she was going, only that she needed to get away, that she could no longer bear to be in the same room as Mr Blackwall and not be able to touch him.

When Tanith came upon the door to the garden she pulled it open, and stumbled out into the night. She took a great lungful of air, tasted the perfume of the summer evening on her tongue. There was something terribly wrong here. She was sick with something, an affliction that twisted like a knife between her ribs. Never in her life had she felt so wretched, so utterly out of control.

It was dark in the garden, but some light spilled from the windows of the house. Tanith moved over to the wall, where there was a little more illumination, and pulled the folded letter from inside her bodice. The heat of her skin had made the paper pliable, soft to the touch. She attempted to open the envelope, though her hands were shaking violently, and when that failed she tore at in with her teeth. 

When she finally managed to shake the letter free she held it up to the light, squinting to make out the vicar’s slanting hand. _I would tell you to be more careful where you leave your letters_ , it read, _but I fear if I did you may cease leaving them altogether, and I cannot damn myself to that fate..._

The moment Tanith finished reading the letter she began again, drinking in each word, committing it to memory. She felt wild, hungry, like a sot desperate for their next taste of liquor. If she could not have him, she could have this; the proof of his affection in ink and paper, tangible in her hands. Something no one could take away from her.

“Tanith?”

She started at the sound of her name, folding the letter quickly and tucking it back inside her dress. There came the sound of footsteps crunching through gravel, and a moment later Tevi was standing beside her. Even in the dim light Tanith could make out the look of concern on her face.

“I thought I should come and check on you,” Tevi said. “Is everything alright? Are you ill?”

“I’m fine,” Tanith said, though the words came out half-strangled. “I just came over a little dizzy. I’m fine now.”

“Are you sure?”

“Perfectly.”

Tevi was silent for a moment, and from the way she shifted her weight from foot to foot Tanith knew she was steeling herself to speak again.

“I hope I’m not overstepping,” she said. “But that certainly didn’t look like nothing. Not from where I was sitting.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, please don’t be like this,” Tevi said, concern cutting through the frustration in her voice. “You know what. And I’m worried about you, Tanith. I’ve never seen you like this before.”

Tanith wrapped her arms around herself. She felt very cold suddenly, as though her body had only just realised that there was a chill in the air.

“Tell me something,” she said. “If I were to admit it to you, would you have a solution for me? Would you be able to tell me what on earth I should do about it?”

“I’m afraid not,” Tevi said gently. “Matters of the heart are hardly my area of expertise, Tan. As you well know.”

“That is your answer then,” Tanith said. “I’m afraid you are mistaken.”

They stood in the darkened garden for a long time, listening to the wind as it rushed through the trees. Everything might be alright, Tanith thought then, so long as she did not have to move from this spot. If she could stay here, with the flowers and the stars and the night, until her heart forgot what it was to love.

But she could not, of course. Eventually Tevi shivered, and nodded back towards Atterwick House.

“Should we go in?” she asked. “They’ll start to worry otherwise.”

“Yes,” Tanith said. “Yes, I suppose we should.”

She followed Tevi back through the garden, towards the door and the house beyond. Toward whatever it was that the future held.


	10. Anthemis

It had been strange, seeing Lady Lavellan’s usual seat empty these past two Sundays. She had warned Blackwall that she was visiting London for a spell, and so it had come as no shock, but he had not been prepared for how greatly he would miss her presence. He was accustomed to her being there, fanning herself in the corner of his eye, a bright spot of colour among the muted congregation. Knowing Lady Lavellan was in attendance compelled him to perform well, to speak better in the hope of gaining her approval.

There was a temptation to make less of an effort while she was gone, to damn those two Sunday services to mediocrity, but Blackwall knew that she would not have been pleased with him for this. _I am not the only one who attends your church_ , he could imagine her saying. _There are other sheep in your flock. Will you really make no effort for their sakes?_

So he had resolved himself to try, at least. More than that; he had taken the opportunity to test some of his own writings, as Lady Lavellan had suggested when he first came to the village. For a while now he had been sitting up evenings studying the bible — a shamefully recent pastime, considering his occupation — and had begun to make notes of what he might say, if he ever worked up the courage to deliver sermons of his own.

During the first week of Lady Lavellan’s absence he trialled this for the first time, reading a short reflection that he had written the previous day. The response from the congregation was mixed, to say the least, which did not surprise Blackwall at all. It had been a circuitous, meandering sort of passage, and several times he had stumbled over his words completely. The following week he tried again, and this had been a much greater success. Several parishioners had sought him out after the service to tell him how much they had enjoyed his thoughts on the thirteenth psalm, and wondered whether he might deliver such a sermon more often?

This made him more determined than ever to persevere, and to ensure that Lady Lavellan would see that he had taken her advice to heart. It was a weak, indirect sort of declaration, but under the circumstances there was little more he could do. In truth it would have been better to give up entirely, to try and put an end to this hopeless infatuation, but try as he might Blackwall could not bear to cut the thread between them. It was difficult to break the habit of a lifetime. Before he had come to Thornford — before he had been forced to keep company with folk whose rank so outstripped his own — it had never been considered unseemly for him to show favour to a woman. He wished ardently that it was in his power to court Lady Lavellan as any other suitor might, to go walking with her in the village or call upon her at home, to speak to her without overstepping the boundaries of their stations.

But it was not. The circumstances of his coming here were too wreathed in secrecy, too fragile to take such a risk. If it were simply his own reputation at stake, he would not have hesitated. He could not, however, damn her to the same fate. She had been raised in comfort and luxury, preparing all her life to inherit her father’s lands and title. Blackwall could not deprive her of that future.

Lady Lavellan returned to Thornford from London on Friday evening, and Blackwall spent all of Saturday in a state of nervous excitement over the prospect of seeing her the following morning. He wasted several sheets of good paper while trying to write a sermon she may appreciate, one she would recognise as his own work and admire him for. It took at least a dozen attempts to come up with something suitable, and even then he was not entirely pleased with it. By the time he retired to bed his mind was full of epistles and parables, his thoughts entirely taken up with scripture. He did not manage much sleep that night.

The next day he walked over to the church early, hoping to calm himself before she arrived. He spent some time making the place look tidy, sweeping dust from the aisles and neatening the prayer cushions, sliding the numbers for the day’s hymns into their wooden brackets. Then he waited.

For a while it seemed as though she would not come at all. The usual parishioners arrived and took their seats, talking amongst themselves while they waited for the service to begin, but Lady Lavellan was not among them. Blackwall waited for as long as he could, but when he began to receive odd looks from the pews he resigned himself to beginning without her.

He had just opened his mouth to speak the first line when the church door swung open. Lady Lavellan was wearing a dress he had not seen before, peach-coloured fabric with beading at the cuffs, and several curls of hair had been left loose around her face. She walked in as swiftly as propriety would allow, her maid following close at her heels, giving apologetic looks first to the other parishioners and finally to Blackwall himself. He nodded back to her, heart pounding in his chest. Throughout this last fortnight he had grown more certain that he could deny her, that soon it would be time to bring this to an end, but the moment he set eyes on her his resolve melted away. All he could think of was how beautiful she looked, and how greatly he had missed her.

Someone at the back of the church cleared their throat. Blackwall realised then that he had been standing in the pulpit for some moments without speaking, and he swiftly turned his attention back to his papers.

“Good morning,” he said. “Thank you for being here. There is a passage I have been reflecting on, this past week, and I hope to share some of my thoughts with you today…”

Blackwall kept his eyes on the congregation as he spoke, but he did not look at Lady Lavellan lest he stumble over his words. Despite this he could feel his eyes on her all throughout the sermon, her gaze sending prickles of heat down the length of his spine. The verse he had selected was from Matthew, and he had chosen it in part because it spoke of flowers. He hoped, in a guilty, desperate way, that she might understand that it was for her.

It was only near the end of the service, when he read the passage in full, that he dared to glance over to where Lady Lavellan sat. She was looking at him curiously, a small, proud smile playing across her lips. Blackwall thought his heart may burst, to see her regard him so.

“Consider the lilies of the field,” he said, his eyes now fixed on her. “How they grow: they neither toil nor spin. And yet I say to you that even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”

The remainder of the reading passed in something of a haze, and before long it was time for the parishioners to return to their homes. They filed out, filling the church’s silence with their chatter, occasionally pausing to greet a friend they had not noticed earlier. As usual, Lady Lavellan remained behind. When the others had gone she approached Blackwall at the front of the church, beaming unreservedly.

“You finally listened to me,” she said. “If I ever needed proof of miracles, here it is.”

“There was good sense in what you said, Lady Lavellan. I don’t think I’ve much skill in sermonising yet, but I hope you enjoyed the attempt.”

“I did,” she said, still smiling. “Very much.”

God, but even in these two short weeks he had forgotten so much of her; the gently mocking lilt in her voice, the dark sweep of her eyelashes, the spray of freckles that followed the line of her clavicle. It was difficult to look at her and not feel the echo of her hand inside his, the closeness of her body as they had moved through the slow figures of the waltz. He recalled another line of scripture, one that he had given much thought to recently; _sustain me with raisins, refresh me with apples, for I am sick with love_.

“I was hoping for a moment of your time,” Lady Lavellan said. “To discuss the summer fete.”

Blackwall had known that this was coming, and had prepared for it. Every week Lady Lavellan found some reason for them to have a few minutes of conversation after the services, and while she was away he had reluctantly decided to break this habit. Now she was standing in front of him he felt like a fool for doing so, but he could not renege on his commitment now.

“I’m sorry, my Lady,” he said. “But I promised I’d call in at the cottage hospital this afternoon.”

“Oh.” Lady Lavellan’s eyes went owlishly wide for a moment. Then she blinked twice, and folded her hands firmly in front of her. “I will go with you, then.”

“You don’t have to do that,” he said. “The hospital can be… challenging, sometimes.”

“And you do not believe I am equal to this challenge?” she said, arching her eyebrows. “I am not as delicate as all that, Mr Blackwall.”

“I know that,” he said. “But I’m certain you have better things to do with your time.”

“The hospital is on my father’s land,” Lady Lavellan said, “and paid for from my father’s purse. Both the land and the purse will one day belong to me. Should I not take an interest in such a venture, given that I will eventually inherit it?”

Blackwall sighed. “Has anyone ever told you that you are very difficult to argue with?”

“I was not aware that we were arguing,” she said sweetly. “Though I imagine it would be, given how often I am right.”

“Suit yourself,” he said, unable to keep from smiling at her. “I’ll have to leave now to get there in time, though.”

“Excellent,” Lady Lavellan said. “I will walk with you.”

Blackwall made a feeble attempt to put her off, saying he would need to return home and change into his day clothes before heading to the hospital. But Lady Lavellan was insistent. She waited outside the vicarage while he swapped his vestments for shirt and morning coat, and began chatting merrily away almost the moment he stepped out of the door. Perhaps it was a ploy of sorts, an attempt to distract him from reality with conversation. Perhaps she had simply missed talking to him as much as he had missed talking to her.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m glad to be back in the country,” Lady Lavellan said. “London isn’t quite so appealing as it was a few years ago.”

“You didn’t enjoy your trip, then?” he asked.

“Oh, it was fine,” Lady Lavellan said. “Her Grace certainly made things… interesting. That woman knows more of life than anyone I’ve ever met. But most of it was much the same as ever. Packed into Almack’s like sardines, carriages moving like treacle. The pleasure gardens are pretty enough, but they don’t hold a candle to Derbyshire in summer.”

As if to demonstrate her appreciation of the season, Lady Lavellan turned her face upwards, towards the sun. It bathed her face in light, shining on her lips and the dusky curve of her eyelids. _Radiant_ , Blackwall thought, then immediately chastised himself for his folly. He would never manage to break things off with her if he allowed himself to be distracted so easily.

“The church has been looking a little bare,” he said. “People have been missing your flowers.”

Lady Lavellan looked up at him, eyes narrowing as she smiled. “ _People_ have, have they? Well, you may assure these _people_ that it is first thing on my list for tomorrow. I’ve spent much of the past fortnight considering what to put in my next arrangement.”

God, but Blackwall hated the obfuscated way the gentry were forced to speak. He could not tell whether Lady Lavellan’s pronouncement was entirely innocent — that she had, in fact, simply been planning flower arrangements — or if there was another meaning. No flowers meant no letters, and Blackwall was almost certain that this was the true meaning of her words. Had she spent weeks wondering what to say to him, when next they wrote? He would be lying if he claimed he had not done the same. Half a dozen missives had already been consigned to the vicarage fire, dismissed as too formal, too incriminating, too bold. In the end he had given up, and instead had read through the bundle of letters locked in his desk drawer. Blackwall had all but committed them to memory now, the shape that her words made on the paper.

“I’m pleased to hear it, my Lady,” Blackwall said, then hissed quietly as a twinge of pain shot through his leg. He slowed his pace a little, stepping gingerly on his right foot to ease the discomfort.

“Are you alright?” Lady Lavellan asked quickly. “Would you like to sit a while?”

Blackwall shook his head. “Thank you, but no,” he said. “Sometimes it’s best just to walk through it.”

“According to whom?” she asked. “Have you spoken to a doctor, since you came here?”

“I have not,” he said. “I appreciate your concern, Lady Lavellan, but it’s an old injury. There’s little to be done about it now.”

“How do you know? Are you a doctor now, as well as a vicar?”

_I’m hardly even that_. “No,” Blackwall said carefully. “But the army surgeons—”

Lady Lavellan scoffed, an entirely unladylike sound. “Oh, please,” she says. “Father doesn’t speak much about the war, but he’s told me enough that I know those men are little more than butchers. Hacking off limbs and tipping laudanum down men’s throats at the slightest sign of ague. How many injuries like yours did they see every day, hmm? Do you really think the medical advice they gave you can be trusted?”

“Perhaps if I’d been in some London convalescent home things might have been different,” he admitted. “There was an infection, something I picked up in the field hospital. Took a while to clear. But it’s _done_ now. Please don’t trouble yourself with it.”

“It isn’t up to you what I trouble myself with,” she said. “Our family sees a fine doctor, a gentleman in Eckington. I will have him come to take a look at you.”

“My Lady, you will do no such thing—”

“I will do exactly such thing,” she said, with a tone of firm finality. “I urge you not to argue with me, Mr Blackwall. You have observed for yourself the futility of that endeavour.”

Lady Lavellan pressed her fingertips lightly into the crook of his elbow. Blackwall started at the touch, suddenly registering that her hand was resting on his arm. She had, he realised, placed it there to steady him when his leg began to hurt, and had not removed it since. In the moment it had felt so natural, so perfectly correct, that he had barely noticed the breach of etiquette. Now, several minutes and half an argument later, they were more or less walking arm in arm down a public road. Luckily it was empty, save for Clara — who Blackwall suspected kept worse secrets for her mistress — so no one had borne witness to their slip.

He should extricate himself from her grip, he knew. Any moment someone might walk along the path and see them. But it felt a pointless thing, to pull away from such an honest, innocent touch. All it served to do was punish them both for some imagined transgression. It hurt no one, changed nothing, to walk with her gloved hand resting lightly on his arm. Blackwall found himself growing almost angry. He bitterly resented whoever had come up with this pointless set of rules, spoiling pleasures so simple as this.

In the end, it was Lady Lavellan who moved away first. There came the sound of hooves in the middle distance, and as a horse and trap came into sight over the next hill she let her hand fall back to her side. Blackwall tried not to focus too much on the absence of her touch. It had been the right thing, after all. Besides, they were almost at the cottage hospital. They could hardly walk into the building arm-in-arm like newlyweds.

“Have you been here before?” Blackwall asked, coming to a stop outside the building.

“Never,” Lady Lavellan said. “What is it that you do here, exactly? Pray for the sick?”

“If they want me to,” he said. “With them, more often than for them. Mostly we just talk. Infirmity can be a lonely business.”

Lady Lavellan nodded. “Lead the way then, Mr Blackwall.”

Blackwall opened the heavy front door, holding it open for Tanith as she stepped inside. The hospital was little more than a single large room with walls of panelled wood, the beds separated by fabric screens that could be wheeled about to give the patients privacy. The air smelled of iodine and unwashed bodies, and in a far corner some hidden person coughed painfully. It struck Blackwall that he should have protested Lady Lavellan’s coming here more forcefully.

Lady Lavellan, for her part, bore it well. Her eyes were a little wider than usual, her mouth set in a thin line, but she held her back straight as they walked among the rows of beds. Clara seemed a little more green around the gills, but she followed her mistress without complaint.

They were halfway across the room when a smartly dressed man stepped away from the bedside of an elderly patient and made his way towards them. His thin eyebrows shot up when he saw Lady Lavellan, and he stopped short to make a low bow. Of course. There wasn’t a soul in the village who didn’t know who she was.

“Lady Lavellan,” he said, pushing his silver-rimmed spectacles up his nose. “I didn’t— we weren’t expecting—”

“May I introduce Doctor Gratton,” Blackwall said, hoping to put the poor man out of his misery. “Lady Lavellan expressed a wish to come and see the hospital. I hope that’s alright with you, sir.”

“Oh, well, but of course,” Doctor Gratton said. “Your father has been a great patron of ours, my Lady.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lady Lavellan said. “It’s a pleasure, Doctor.”

The two shook hands, then Doctor Gratton turned his attention to Blackwall once more. “I’m afraid Mrs Beckett doesn’t have long,” he said. “I was hoping you’d take a moment with her, if you have time.”

“Of course,” Blackwall said. Mrs Beckett had been in the hospital longer than he had lived in Thornford, growing smaller and more frail with each visit. He had known for some time now that her end was coming, and was glad that he could provide some small solace to her. However insubstantial it might be.

“You should go about your business,” Lady Lavellan said. “I’m sure I can find something to occupy myself.”

“Are you sure?” Blackwall asked. He was certain that leaving a Marquess’s daughter alone and unattended in a hospital was not gentlemanly behaviour, however flimsy his grasp on such things might be.

“Perfectly,” she said. “Whoever this poor woman is, it doesn’t sound as though she needs the company of a stranger right now. Go. I’ll be fine.”

Blackwall hesitated for a moment, but could not deny the wisdom of what she said. Mrs Beckett’s body was failing but her mind was still sharp as a tack. She would doubtless not appreciate the intrusion of an unfamiliar face, especially one she may feel the need to curtsy to.

“I can have tea brought to my office,” Doctor Gratton suggested. “If you would be more comfortable there, Lady Lavellan.”

She shook her head. “Neither of you need waste any more time on me, I assure you. Please, carry on as you were. I didn’t come here intending to cause any kind of commotion.”

Lady Lavellan shooed them both away, as though they were children, or pet dogs, rather then grown men. Be that as it may, both of them did as she had asked. Doctor Gratton took Blackwall to Mrs Beckett’s bedside and then returned to his rounds, looking marginally more harried than usual.

Mrs Beckett was in decent spirits, given her condition, and she and Blackwall passed a pleasant quarter of an hour talking of small things. The old woman had a grandson in the village, and Blackwall often brought her news of him and his family. They visited sometimes, though, with the work of the fields being what it was in summer, not so often as they would like. He said a prayer at her request, both of them clasping their hands in their laps and casting their eyes down as Blackwall spoke the words.

He had never felt more of a fraud then when he first started coming to the hospital. In those early weeks and months he felt as though he were cheating these poor people, the sick and the dying, selling them falsehoods in their hour of need. Over time, though, his perspective on this had begun to change. It struck him that if God really were listening — and, he supposed, this should be his opinion — that it mattered not who was saying the prayers. The significant part was simply being present, and providing the necessary comfort. If nothing else, Blackwall was certain that this was a task he could fulfill.

Mrs Beckett grew tired after a while, and Blackwall left her to sleep. He then went to the bedside of Mr Ashton, a young man who had been badly injured in a farming accident, and spoke to him for a while. There were perhaps half a dozen patients in the hospital whom he spoke to at every visit, and there were usually one or two more in residence who asked to speak to him before he left. Some of these conversations were challenging — people who were terrified, railing against death, against their own failing bodies — some were mundane, and a surprising number were pleasant. Once one got past the pervasive scent of sickness, it was easy to forget that one was in a medical building at all.

The afternoons at the hospital always passed quickly, and when Blackwall left his final charge’s bedside he realised that over two hours had gone by. Two hours where he had left Lady Lavellan alone, abandoned in unfamiliar surroundings. He had intended to check on her earlier, but had been so absorbed in his work that he had not noticed the minutes ticking by. How utterly stupid of him, to do such a thing. Quickly he made his way down the aisle of beds, glancing around in search of her.

He imagined finding her sitting in some corner, bored and put-out at having been left to her own devices, blaming him personally for her discomfort. It shamed him to even think of it.

But, when he did locate her, she was doing nothing of the sort. Lady Lavellan was sitting in a low chair beside an elderly woman’s bed, with Clara similarly seated beside her. The three women were laughing over something or other, the patient wheezing a little as she chuckled.

When Blackwall stepped towards them Lady Lavellan looked up, smiling brightly in his direction. “There you are,” she said. “Just in time. We need a fourth for whist.”

“I beg your pardon?” Blackwall said. He was deeply relieved to find she was not angry with him, and it had made him a little thick-headed.

“Sit down,” Lady Lavellan said, gesturing to an empty chair beside her. “Mabel here is going to deal.”

The old woman was indeed shuffling a deck of cards, her back propped up against a stack of pillows. “I insisted, vicar,” she said to Blackwall. “You ought to keep an eye on Her Ladyship. She cheats, she does.”

“Come now,” Lady Lavellan said, her hand flying to her chest in mock-offence. “There’s no need to be like that, just because I’m a dab hand at cribbage.”

Mabel laughed at that, though it soon turned into a deep, hacking cough. Without so much as a flinch Lady Lavellan took a handkerchief from the bedside table and lifted it to the old woman’s mouth, her other hand resting on her shoulder.

“Easy now,” she said. “Don’t overdo it, will you?”

After a moment Mabel’s coughing subsided. She took the handkerchief from Lady Lavellan’s hand and wiped her mouth with it, then set it aside and returned to her cards.

Blackwall had been staring openly as all this occurred, vaguely incredulous. He knew that Lady Lavellan was built of sterner stuff than most young ladies of the ton, but he had not thought to see her playing nurse within a scant few hours of arriving at the hospital. There was a brisk efficiency about the way she conducted herself, tucking the edges of Mabel’s sheets carefully under the mattress as she waited for her to deal the cards.

He was still staring when Lady Lavellan looked up at him again, frowning this time. “Did you hear me?” she said. “Sit. Or is there something more pressing that requires your attention?”

Since there was not, Blackwall did as he was told and went to sit in the vacant seat at Mabel’s bedside. There not being a card table available at the cottage hospital, the women had improvised with a breakfast tray balanced on the edge of the mattress. It forced the four of them to sit rather close together as they played, and Blackwall was painfully conscious of how often his knee touched Lady Lavellan’s, how many times the bare skin of her arm brushed the sleeve of his coat.

As a consequence of this, Blackwall and Mabel, with whom he had been paired, ended up losing the game rather quickly.

“I told you,” Mabel scoffed, pointing to Lady Lavellan. “She cheats!”

“There’s nothing worse than a sore loser,” Lady Lavellan said. “Besides, I think you have your partner to blame for that poor showing. Calls himself a soldier, honestly. I would have thought your time in the army would have honed your skills at cards better than that, Mr Blackwall.”

“But I’m not a soldier any more, am I?” he said. “I don’t know if it’s proper for a vicar to win at cards.”

“Your clerical propriety has hardly stopped you before.” Lady Lavellan cast him a sly little glance while the others were looking elsewhere, one that sent a dark shiver up his spine. “Anyone for another game?”

“I think that’s me done for the day,” Mabel said, setting the cards to one side and leaning back against her pillows. “Thank you for taking the time, though, Your Ladyship. It’s much appreciated.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Lady Lavellan said, giving Mabel’s hand a light squeeze before rising from her chair and smoothing down her skirts with the flat of her hand. “And it’s Tanith, please.”

“Well, isn’t that la-di-da,” Mabel chuckled. “What’ll the others say, when they find out I’m on first name terms with the lady of the manor?”

“They’ll be horribly jealous,” Lady Lavellan smirked. “But we’ll say our goodbyes now. Take care, Mabel.”

Blackwall, Lady Lavellan and Clara made their way out of the hospital then, pausing briefly to say farewell to Doctor Gratton. It was so dim inside the building that Blackwall was almost shocked to step out into a fine July afternoon. There were insects buzzing lazily around the hedgerows, and after the grim scent of the hospital the smell of fresh air was pleasantly overwhelming.

They headed back to the village, walking in silence at first. Blackwall spent some time trying to articulate the question rolling around his mind, wondering how to phrase it in a way that would not cause offence.

“You seemed to take naturally to that,” he said at last. “Caring for people, I mean.”

“Playing a few hands of cards with someone is hardly caring for them,” Lady Lavellan said.

“Perhaps not,” he said. “But still, you seemed… comfortable. There’s many wouldn’t be.”

Lady Lavellan was silent for a few moments, staring directly at the road ahead as she walked. She opened her mouth, sighed quietly, then spoke. “My mother’s illness was very short,” she said. “Short, and vicious. My father was overseas, as you know. The doctors told me there was little else we could do but make her comfortable. And so I did.”

Belatedly, Blackwall saw Lady Lavellan’s calm bedside demeanour for what it was; the legacy of practice. He felt a fool for not realising it sooner, not connecting the dots of her past to draw that obvious conclusion.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I should have thought.”

“Why should you have?” Lady Lavellan said, looking up at him. “It’s not as though I ever talk about it.”

“Still,” he said. “I should have been more tactful.”

Clara was walking some few yards behind them, picking berries in the hedgerows, and Lady Lavellan dropped her voice so none but Blackwall could hear. “I do wish you would be less tactful, sometimes,” she said. “I grow so tired of _tact_.”

There was such a depth of bitterness in her voice that Blackwall was caught off guard for a moment. It was the most candour she had ever demonstrated, outside of her letters, the closest either of them had ever dared come to honesty. It filled him with joy and dread in equal measure.

“It’s not that I don’t share your frustration,” he said quietly. “You know that better than anyone.”

“So why do we waste our time so?” she asked, kicking a stone down the path with the toe of her slipper. “Do you know why I came with you, today? Aside from keeping your company.”

“I can’t say that I do.”

“I wanted you to— I fear, sometimes, that you make assumptions about me.” Lady Lavellan’s brow was furrowed, her jaw set. “About who I am. About my view of the world. Because of my title, and my family, and how I was brought up. I have no doubt that some of those assumptions may be true — I am not so naive as that — but not all. I cannot bear the thought of your impression of me being incomplete.”

Her speech took Blackwall by surprise at first, but after a moment’s consideration he realised that it made a sort of sense. After all, had he not often nursed the same concerns? Had he not been afraid that she would see only his position, and nothing else? That she would overlook some crucial piece of him, some essential fact of his being? It kept him awake at night, the long list of things he could not share with her. If she insisted on caring for him as she did, he wanted her to care for every part of him, every angle and facet and flaw.

“It may be true,” Blackwall said, “that there are sides of you I am not yet acquainted with. But I assure you, I know that all I’ve seen is not all there is. I have the sense that a man might know you for a lifetime and still find things that take him by surprise.”

Lady Lavellan scoffed, though her cheeks burned with colour beneath her freckles. “‘A man’, he says. How you hide behind your hypotheticals, sir.”

“We are both of us hiding, my Lady.”

“I wish you would call me Tanith,” she said. “Even for my ears alone.”

_Tanith_. Blackwall had spoken her name before, of course, though never where another might hear him. He had savoured the taste of it, the way his tongue tapped against the roof of his mouth on the first letter, pushed between his teeth on the last, how the final syllable breathed out like a sigh. Yes, he had spoken her name. Slipped between the words of prayers, of curses. A secret thing, jealously guarded.

He parted his lips to speak it then, but found that he could not form the first sound. It would have made it too real, too tangible. To use her name was an intimacy he had not earned, and could never consummate. It would have only been further torture for the both of them. So he closed his mouth again, and shook his head once.

“It wouldn’t be right, my Lady,” he said. “You know that as well as I do.”

“As though I could ever forget.” Her voice was resigned, but not angry. She sounded very tired, as though this short conversation had exhausted her beyond measure. “I’m sorry, Mr Blackwall. I push too hard.”

“You needn’t apologise to me,” he said. “It isn’t your fault things are the way they are.”

“No,” she said. “Neither of us are at fault really, are we? And yet here we are. Punished regardless.”

They walked the rest of the way back to the village in silence, each absorbed in their own thoughts. At some point Clara caught up with them, sharing her roadside bounty. Lady Lavellan accepted, stripping off her white gloves to eat blackberries with her fingers, their juice staining her lips a deep, dangerous red. Blackwall took one for himself, if only to have some impression of how her mouth might taste in that moment.

Blackwall said his farewells to the women at a place where the road forked, one path leading up to Thornford Hall, the other down to the village. He turned to leave, and was several paces down the road when Lady Lavellan called out after him.

“Wait,” she said, walking quickly to catch up. “I’d completely forgotten what I came to speak to you about. The village fete. We will have to discuss it at some point soon.”

“I see.”

Blackwall knew she was creating another opportunity, another chance for them to steal a few moments together. _Now_ , he thought. _Now is the time to turn her down, turn her away, to break her heart and yours before this goes any further_.

“I said I would bring the flowers tomorrow,” she said. “We could speak then, if you have the time.”

There was an expression in her face that he didn’t recognise; something hesitant, uncertain. Almost shy. In that moment it was easy to forget that she was Lady Lavellan, heir to the Marquess, an aristocrat of great lands and fortune. She looked only like a woman, speaking to a man whom she feared may scorn her.

“Of course,” he said. “Please, do.”

Lady Lavellan smiled then, and it was like the sun breaking behind clouds. How could he turn her away, when this was the alternative? How could he bring himself to refuse her, when he might spend another afternoon in her company first? It was doomed, he knew, no matter how often he postponed the inevitable. But it did not have to be doomed today, nor tomorrow. Weak as he was, he could not resist the urge to cling to her a little longer.

“Very well then,” she said. “I will see you in the morning. Until then, Mr Blackwall.”

“Take care, Lady Lavellan.”

Blackwall set off towards the village once more, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. He passed a minute like this, walking in steady silence. Then he glanced around, checking to make sure that no one was behind him and no one was ahead.

Only then, when he knew he was alone, did he finally speak her name.


	11. Cardamine

Tanith was trimming flowers in the conservatory one morning when her father came to see her. This was surprising; save for mealtimes, the two of them more or less kept to their own set of rooms. She could not recall ever seeing Lord Lavellan in the conservatory before. His dark clothing and stern expression seemed out of place in the bright, airy chamber, as though the sunlight pouring in through the glass did not quite reach him.

“Good morning,” Tanith said, arching an eyebrow. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Lord Lavellan, never one for small talk, told her straight away. “I have a visitor coming this morning,” he said. “I would have you there when he arrives.”

“I can’t, I’m afraid,” Tanith said, turning her attention back to her work. “I said I’d get these flowers over to the church and I’m horribly behind.”

“That can wait,” he said. “I’m sure Mr Blackwall won’t mind if you delay till this afternoon.”

Tanith felt herself flush a little, and fought to maintain her calm countenance. It was odd, hearing her father speak his name. As though by saying the words alone he might expose her.

“All the same,” she said. “I made a promise.”

“Tanith.” Lord Lavellan’s voice was firm, his eyes sharp as flint. “You seem to have misunderstood me. I was not making a suggestion.”

Tanith opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again. She had little desire to antagonise her father more than she already had, under the circumstances. Delaying her visit to the church for an hour would not cause too much harm, and it may deliver her from Lord Lavellan’s scrutiny for a while. Such sacrifices were necessary, sometimes.

“Very well,” she sighed. “Who is this visitor, anyway?”

“Charles Cavendish,” Lord Lavellan said. “His father is the Earl of Gloucester. He’s a naval man, recently returned from the continent. I promised Robert that I would show his son some hospitality while he was visiting the county.”

“Do I know him?” Tanith asked. The name was vaguely familiar, though that could be said for most of the English peerage.

“Perhaps from London,” Lord Lavellan said. “He has been away for quite some time.”

“That hardly narrows it down,” she said. “London was teeming with young men while I was there. I can hardly be expected to remember them all.”

“I’ll thank you to keep comments like that to yourself when Lord Cavendish is here,” he said. “While your reputation may be somewhat mended, it could just as easily be lost again. Don’t forget that, Tanith.”

Somehow she managed to keep from rolling her eyes. She had never cared very much about her reputation to begin with, and cared even less so now. Still, it was easier simply to go along with it. If her father felt she was being meek and biddable it would keep him off her back and out of her business.

“Of course, father,” she said. “When is Lord Cavendish arriving?”

“Ten,” he said. “We will meet in the drawing room, I think. Please don’t be late.”

He turned on his heel and walked out of the conservatory without so much as a ‘goodbye’. It was past nine o’clock already, so after trimming a few more stems Tanith set down her work and went to make herself ready. She washed the pollen and sap from her hands, and had Clara pin her hair into a neat chignon. The dress she wore was fine, but simple, white muslin with pale blue trim. Tanith examined herself in the mirror for a while before heading downstairs. The effect, she hoped, was that she would look unaffected as well as attractive. She had played her cards very openly with Mr Blackwall, that day at the hospital, and was concerned that her candour had been off-putting to him. It seemed prudent to take a slight step back, to let him consider all that she had said without pushing him.

Tanith arrived in the drawing room not long before a footman announced Lord Cavendish. If she ever had met him in London, Tanith had forgotten him in the intervening years. He was a well-groomed man of about thirty or so, with dark brown hair and eyes of the same colour, and while his features were fine they might have belonged to any number of young men of the ton. Once, she thought, she may have considered him handsome; now she could find nothing in his face to interest her.

Her father greeted Lord Cavendish with a modicum of warmth, which was unusual in itself, before introducing him to Tanith.

“This is my daughter, Tanith,” he said, gesturing for her to come forward. “I am unsure whether the two of you have ever been acquainted.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lady Lavellan,” Lord Cavendish said, bowing very low. “I do not think we have, or I certainly would have recalled it.”

Tanith felt something cold settle in her stomach. How foolish, to have not anticipated what this was; an attempt to thrust her into the arms of an eligible bachelor. The son of an Earl, a naval officer, and, from the quality of his garb, fairly wealthy. Exactly the sort of man to whom Lord Lavellan wished to see her wed. Tanith forced a smile onto her face, resisting the urge to flee the room immediately.

“Welcome to Thornford, Lord Cavendish. I hope your journey was a pleasant one.”

“Oh, quite pleasant,” he said. “I’m staying with relatives in Mosborough, just over the county line.”

“I see,” Tanith said, her eyes already beginning to glaze over. “How nice.”

Lord Lavellan sent the footman away for tea, and the three of them sat down to talk. The men discussed the war for a while, in genteel terms, speaking of mutual acquaintances rather than military matters, while Tanith took up a piece of fancywork that she had set down on a little table some two weeks before. What the pattern was supposed to be, she could not quite remember now; perhaps a fern, from the colour? She sewed without paying much attention to the movement of her hands, hoping that if she stayed small and meek and quiet then no one would attempt to include her in the conversation.

She had no such luck, however. Lord Cavendish soon turned his attention back to Tanith, an ingratiating smile on his face.

“Your father told me you were fond of arranging flowers, when he wrote.” Lord Cavendish gestured to a sideboard, where a small vase sat. “Is this one of your creations?”

“It is, my Lord,” Tanith said.

“I say, that’s splendid work,” he said. “Very jolly.”

It was, in fact, nothing of the sort. The bouquet of hyacinths, bluebells and pheasant’s eye was one that Tanith had put together when she was in a melancholy mood, and its message reflected that. Not that she expected Lord Cavendish to understand such subtleties. It was clear now why Lord Lavellan had chosen to receive his visitor in the drawing room rather than his study; he wanted to showcase his daughter’s talents, to parade her about like a prize pig at market.

The trio spoke for a while longer, Tanith saying as little as she could manage without appearing rude, and all the while glancing over to the clock. If she left within the hour she could still finish her arrangements and make it down to the village for noon.

“Did you say that you’d purchased a new phaeton?” Lord Lavellan asked his guest, with a deliberate air.

“Indeed I did,” Lord Cavendish said, grinning happily. “Last week. And a pair of fine geldings to go with it, too. I admit it was a bit of an indulgence, but after so long away I couldn’t help myself.”

“Nor should you,” Lord Lavellan said approvingly. “It is important for a man to present himself well.”

“I was thinking of taking a drive this morning.” Lord Cavendish looked over at Tanith. “I was hoping you might come with me, my Lady, since you know the landscape so much better than I?”

Tanith balked at the suggestion. If she went out for a pleasure drive with this man she would be away for an hour or more, not to mention the impression it would give to anyone who saw them. She cleared her throat, hands fidgeting with her embroidery ring.

“I’m afraid that open carriages do not agree with me, sir,” she said, which was true enough. “I am not fond of horses.”

“This pair are sweet as lambs, I assure you,” Lord Cavendish said. “They are nothing to be afraid of.”

Tanith felt her cheeks grow hot, resenting the — admittedly accurate — implication that she was frightened of the creatures. While she was not interested in earning this man’s regard, she did not want him to think her a silly girl either. She was far too proud for that.

“Come now, Tanith,” Lord Lavellan said, the slightest hint of ice in his voice. “Lord Cavendish has made you a generous invitation. I’m sure you can set your concerns aside for a time.”

Tanith recognised his tone well. It was the do-not-argue-with-me tone, the very same one she had inherited a measure of herself. If she were to turn down Lord Cavendish now, she would not hear the end of it— and her father may not allow her to go to the village at all. That, she reflected, was the worst possible outcome. She could stomach one carriage ride with this gentleman in exchange for a full afternoon of freedom.

“Very well,” she said. “That would be lovely, my Lord.”

They set out soon afterwards, as Lord Cavendish had driven in his new phaeton to Thornford Hall and it was already close to hand. The young gentleman took her hand to help her into the carriage, and Tanith had to resist the urge to flinch away from the snorting, stamping horses. They were simply far too large, and had hooves that could kill a man with a single kick. It seemed a perfectly reasonable fear to her.

To Tanith’s relief they did not set off towards Thornford village, but rather made a circuit of the picturesque country roads around the Peaks. She tried to enjoy the views, the sweeping moors and bucolic fields, though they did not inspire so much joy in her as usual.

There had been a time when, despite her dislike of the animals that pulled them, Tanith had enjoyed taking carriage rides with men. It was easy to have private conversations over the cacophony of hoofbeats, and one could always find an excuse to grip a knee or shoulder when the wheels jolted. Once she might have flirted outrageously with Lord Cavendish, testing to see how bold he would allow her to be.

Now she could barely hold the thread of the conversation. Lord Cavendish was, she decided, a perfectly nice man. He was quite clever, attentive without being cloying, and lacked the streak of arrogance that was endemic among gentlemen of the ton. He told her enough about his life to be interesting, yet asked enough questions that the conversation was not solely centred around him. He was kind, and confident, and well-placed in the world.

Lord Cavendish was, in short, a perfect match for her. Her father had chosen well.

There only remained one crucial barrier; that Tanith was not in love with him. And, unless something changed significantly, she never would be. She had understood from childhood that a love match was unlikely to be on the cards for her, and in some ways had accepted that. But things were quite different now. Today she understood what it was to love someone. Now she had a taste of that knowledge, she could no longer imagine a life without it. 

It was long past noon by the time they arrived back at Thornford Hall. Tanith said her farewells as swiftly as she was able to without being impolite, though not before Lord Cavendish mentioned that Tanith’s father had invited him to dine with them two evenings hence. She grit her teeth, smiled, and said that would be most pleasant. Then she left, only her dignity keeping her from running up the steps of the house.

By the time she entered the conservatory she was feeling quite harried. She had not even begun trimming the flowers this morning, let alone made a start on arranging them. There was enough work in front of her to fill an hour or more, and even if she began now she would not make it into Thornford village before four o’clock. Perhaps he would have tired of waiting for her, by then. Perhaps he already had.

With that worrying thought in mind, Tanith made a decision. She carefully returned the flowers to their basket, packed her shears and spools of twine, and carried it from the room. Clara was nowhere to be found; Tanith searched for her maid everywhere she might possibly be, but the girl seemed to have vanished. Not wanting to waste any more time, Tanith set off for the village without her. If she was going to be seen without a chaperone, she reasoned, it may as well be at church.

When she finally arrived in the village she was breathing hard from exertion, her arm sore from carrying the heavy basket all the way down from the estate. Road dust had stained the pristine hem of her dress, and a great number of curls had come loose from her chignon. While she had been planning to present Mr Blackwall with a less polished exterior, this was a little more than what she had in mind. Still, there was nothing to be done about it now. Hauling her basket onto her other arm, she made her way towards the church.

The front doors of the building were propped open, letting in the air and light of the afternoon. To Tanith’s relief, Mr Blackwall was still there. He was sitting on the raised step leading up to the altar, and was surrounded by several pieces of wood. There were shavings and piles of sawdust on the floor, and he was in the middle of carving something with a small knife. Her heart fluttered a little when she laid eyes on him. He looked calmer, somehow, more at ease than he often did. His shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the fine muscles of his forearms shifting with the movement of his hands, and his pale eyes were half-lidded when he glanced up at her.

When Tanith walked closer Mr Blackwall set down his work, then braced his hands against the floor as if to stand.

“Don’t get up,” Tanith said, wiping the perspiration from her forehead as she made her way down the aisle. “I’m sorry I’m so late.”

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming,” he said, glancing over to the loose flowers she carried. “That seems a little… deconstructed.”

Tanith laughed, setting the basket on the altar. “I thought I’d save some time and arrange them here,” she said. “Save having to send them down later.”

“I see,” he said. “I’d be pleased to see you work.”

“It’s nothing very special,” she said, flushing slightly. “What’s all this, anyway? Are you adding carpentry to your list of talents?”

“Not a very long list,” Mr Blackwall said. “The credence table was looking a little worn out. I thought I’d tidy it up a bit.”

Tanith glanced at the assortment of wooden pieces scattered around the church floor. “I have to say, it doesn’t look very tidy.”

“It will once I’ve finished,” he chuckled. “Hopefully, anyway.”

“Well, I wish you luck.”

She removed the flowers from the basket and laid them out on the altar, separating them by shape and colour. First she would trim them down, stripping away the excess leaves and thorns, then decide how best to arrange them. It was more of an instinct than an art, really; she did not plan how she would place each stem, but rather relied on her gut to tell her where each flower should go.

The vases she had left at the church the previous week were still there, thankfully, and she emptied them of their dying blossoms before filling them with fresh water. This necessitated going to the pump in the village square and, while Mr Blackwall offered to help, Tanith obstinately insisted on doing it herself. This proved harder than she had anticipated, and by the time she was done the skirt of her dress was filthy and ruined. Still, there was a certain pride in completing this simple task unaided. One dress was a worthy sacrifice in the name of self-sufficiency.

“What kept you this morning?” Mr Blackwall asked when she returned. He looked down at her mud-spattered skirt, and while he managed to keep from laughing he could not quite hide his amusement.

“My father had a guest,” Tanith said, ignoring his mirth. “I was expected to play the dutiful daughter and entertain him.”

“You make it sound like a chore.”

“It was.” Tanith lifted her shears and began snipping the stray leaves from a rose. “I would much rather have been on time for our appointment.”

“It’s odd,” Mr Blackwall said. “When I first came here, I had the impression that you were much given over to entertaining. Nobody mentioned what a devoted church-goer you were.”

Tanith laughed, sweeping her cuttings to the side. “Odd indeed,” she said. “Until you came here I never was.”

“I’ll ascribe that to the quality of my sermons, shall I?”

“Something like that.”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a while, each focused on their own tasks. There was something relaxing about the rhythmic sound of Mr Blackwall’s knife scraping against wood, the unconscious movement of her own fingers where she stripped away dry leaves and stubborn twigs. Sounds of birdsong and conversation from the village square drifted in through the open doors of the church, muted softly by the thick stone. It was a domestic scene, she realised; the two of them happily going about their work in one another’s presence, content not to speak, not to perform for one another. Tanith could not remember the last time she had felt so at peace in a man’s company. She wasn’t sure that she ever had.

From her position at the altar she had a good view of him, though his back was to her, and she watched him as he carefully fit the pieces of the credence table back together. He had eschewed his coat for the task, and Tanith found herself quite absorbed in the way his shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. She followed the line of his dark hair to where it tapered beneath his collar, at the nape of his neck, blending into sun-browned skin. Idly she wondered what it would be like to press her lips to that spot, whether the touch would make him shiver in her arms.

A sudden, sharp pain in her thumb snapped her out of her reverie. She had caught it on a thorn of the rose she was trimming, snagging the skin on its point. Tanith hissed in pain, bringing her thumb to her mouth to suck the blood away. It pooled hot and metallic on her tongue, the pain dulling to a low ache.

“Are you alright?” Mr Blackwall had risen to his feet, frowning as he came to stand beside her.

“Fine,” Tanith said, drawing her thumb from her mouth to show him where she had cut herself. “Honestly, roses are far more trouble than they’re worth.”

“Let me see.”

Mr Blackwall reached out and took her hand in both of his, turning her palm upwards towards the ceiling. His hands, so much larger then hers, gently cupped her fingers, the back of her wrist. Tanith could feel the callouses on his skin, the fine dust of wood shavings. She took in a slow breath, trying to calm the sudden pounding of her heart.

They had never touched so openly before. Not like this, alone and unchaperoned, the contact between them lasting longer than a fleeting moment. Tanith kept waiting for Mr Blackwall to move, to pull away from her as he had so many times, but he did not. Nor did she. Her hand stayed resting against his, her skin taking on his warmth. A pinprick ruby of blood beaded on her thumb.

When she finally dared look up she found Mr Blackwall already regarding her closely. His brow was furrowed, his lips slightly parted. He looked… breathless, almost. As though he could hardly credit his own good fortune. More than that; his pale eyes told her things that he had never spoken aloud, never even committed to paper in his letters. Tanith imagined she appeared just the same to him. She knew that her face just then could have concealed nothing of her feelings, even if she had wanted it to.

“We should be more careful,” Mr Blackwall said, his voice a little hoarse. “If someone walked in—”

“And if they did?” Tanith asked. “Whatever impression they had, I hardly believe it would be false.”

He looked back down to where her hand lay in his. As Tanith had once done to him in the Adlers’ drawing room, Mr Blackwall turned her hand and stroked a slow circle on her palm. Her eyes fell closed for a moment, a quiet _oh_ of surprise escaping her lips. The pad of his thumb was rough against the softness of her skin. There was no hesitation in that light touch, no sign of guilt or reluctance.

“And you say I should be more careful,” Tanith breathed.

“I trust you to have more sense than I,” he said. “And more strength.”

“Then you are twice a fool.”

“You don’t make it easy to walk away, Lady Lavellan.”

“What on earth gave you the impression that I would want you to?”

Mr Blackwall did not answer that. Instead he turned her hand over, brushing his thumb across her knuckles. Tanith placed her other hand over his, wanting to hold him there, to keep him from pulling away so soon. Blunt nails and scar tissue, coarse hair between her fingers. She had pictured what his hands would feel like on her body often enough, and now she embellished those imaginings with fine detail. It seemed impossible, unthinkable that she would never experience it for herself. Just then she was sure she would go mad if she did not.

“I didn’t bring a letter,” she said, the words bursting out of her suddenly. “I was running so late, I didn’t have time— please don’t think I neglected it on purpose. I would never.”

“I don’t,” Mr Blackwall said. He met her eyes, blinked slowly. “What would it have said, this letter you didn’t write?”

Tanith swallowed, struggling to concentrate past the heat of his hand around hers. “That I hardly know who I am any more,” she said. “That so many things that used to bring me pleasure seem small now, and silly. I used to attend parties nearly every day of the week, once upon a time. I would talk to two dozen people at each one, at least. Now I find most people’s society tiresome. They are not you, and that fact renders them useless.”

“Those are strong words, Lady Lavellan.”

“They are strongly felt.” Tanith wrapped her fingers more firmly around his. “My world has shrunk to the size of you, Mr Blackwall. I mean it.”

Tanith held it so clearly in her mind, what she would have done next; lifted his hand to her mouth, pressed her lips to his knuckles, kissed the pulse point of his wrist. She would have traced the deeply-scored lines of his palm with her tongue, read her future there.

But before she could do anything of the sort there was a knock at the door of the church, and Mr Blackwall let go of her hand as though it had burned him. He stepped away from where Tanith stood, turning his back to her as he looked over towards the door.

“Mr Blackwall?” a voice called. “Are you there, sir?”

“Yes,” Mr Blackwall replied, his voice tight in his throat. “Come in.”

A middle-aged man walked into the church, doffing his hat as he stepped over the threshold. Tanith recognised him as the chair of the parish committee, though she could not recall his name. Just then she could not seem to manufacture a single thought at all. Not knowing what else to do, she turned back to the array of flowers laid out on the altar and resumed her work. There was a roaring in her ears, like the sound of the ocean in a conch shell.

Mr Blackwall and the committee chair conversed for a while, about some small matter that Tanith could not hear and did not care to. She trimmed the rest of the flowers and began placing stems in the closest vase, working almost without thought. Yellow carnations, meadowsweet, sprigs of sweetvetch. A muddled, clumsy arrangement of blossoms, her emotions torn from her breast and displayed for all to see. _Disappointment, rejection, uselessness, agitation_. It was lucky that none shared her skill for this language, or anyone might have known the vagaries of her heart.

Once their conversation had come to an end the committee chair left them alone again, but by then the moment had passed. Mr Blackwall walked over to the altar and laid his fingertips on the cloth that covered it, as though this was the closest thing he could manage to touching her in earnest.

“Lady Lavellan,” he said, his eyes downcast. “I shouldn’t—”

“I know,” she said, cutting him off. “I know very well all the things that you shouldn’t do. All too intimately.”

“Perhaps—” Mr Blackwall hesitated a moment, running a hand through his hair. “Perhaps it would be better if we saw less of each other, for a time.”

“I see.” Tanith snipped through the stem of a tulip. “You are turning me aside, then?”

“No,” he said. “Not that. I only know that I cannot think straight, when I am around you.”

“Nor I around you,” she said quietly.

“That is precisely why I suggest it,” Mr Blackwall said, his voice gentle. “I fear you take these risks without the space to consider the consequences. I worry you will do something that you later come to regret, and you will hate me for it.”

“Do you honestly believe I could hate you?” Tanith asked.

“I hope not,” he said. “But if you were ruined for my sake, you might think differently.”

“You believe me more inconstant than I am,” she said. “But perhaps there is wisdom in what you say. Even if only so you will believe me, when I tell you that my mind has not changed.”

Mr Blackwall shook his head, then let out a fond sort of sigh. “Dear God,” he said. “I’ve met veterans of a half-dozen wars who were not so stubborn as you.”

“You would do well to remember that,” Tanith said, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Now, go and finish your table. I will never get this done if you insist on distracting me.”

They each returned to their own tasks, and within an hour both were complete. Mr Blackwall carried the credence table back into the sanctuary, and Tanith placed the vases of flowers in their proper places around the church. Then they parted ways, more formally than they had in some time.

When she arrived back at Thornford Hall later that day Tanith complained to the servants of a headache, and went directly to her room with promises that she would not be disturbed. Clara was still nowhere to be found. Tanith removed her mud-spattered gown, tossing it to one side and climbing onto her bed in chemise and stays. She lay staring at the canopy for some time, hands clasped together in a pale imitation of the afternoon’s intimacy. There was a sweet ache buried deep in her chest, and her limbs felt numb and heavy.

He wanted them to see less of one another for a while. To give them both space to think, to consider what it was they did.

Very well. She could tolerate that. It was not a poor idea, really. They were playing with fire, after all, and it would not do for them to make decisions that were not well thought through. She had meant what she said, however. Her heart would not change, no matter how much time she spent reflecting.

But, with a little time, she may work out what it was that she needed to do about it.


	12. Cobaea

To Blackwall’s surprise, Lady Lavellan stayed true to their agreement. For a full week they did not speak to one another as they once had, did not contrive excuses for a few minutes’ conversation. After services on Sunday she stood and left with the rest of the crowd, filing out of the church without a word.

He saw her several times, around the village; walking with Nico across the green, pausing outside the haberdashery to examine the display in the window. It made his heart ache, to see her and not speak to her. He missed her voice, the low, husky timbre of it, missed how her green eyes narrowed when she spoke. Blackwall had suggested they spend some time apart in the hope that a course of action would become clear to him; if anything, he was more confused than before. His conscience insisted that breaking off their intimacy was the right thing to do, but it proved a weak assertion. Difficult to choose the path of right when his skin still remembered the touch of her hand, when his heart still lurched at the sight of her, when his mind was full of nothing but her words.

There had been no letter, that week. Blackwall did not want to make a hypocrite of himself, to convince Lady Lavellan that it was best for them to see less of each other only to renew their correspondence on paper. As the days wore on he wondered whether that had been the right decision. She had bared her heart, after all, spoken the words as they stood hand-in-hand at the altar. Did she not deserve a response, after such an open confession? Was it callous to leave that declaration unanswered?

Blackwall was still debating this question one day in late June, as he took his morning constitutional around the village. It was a bright, calm sort of day, one that turned Thornford into something out of a pastoral poem. He almost expected to see some lovesick shepherd on the hillside, plucking at a lyre among his flock.

_Come live with me and be my love,  
_ _and we will all the pleasures prove._

Blackwall snorted quietly to himself. Perhaps, in this circumstance, the role of the shepherd was his.

After a short circuit around the outlying farms, he turned around and made his way back towards Thornford proper. He was almost at the vicarage door when he heard footsteps on the path behind him, and felt a light touch at his elbow. Before he had even turned to look he knew that it was Lady Lavellan. He could smell the scent of her on the morning breeze, fresh-cut flowers and orange peel.

“Good morning,” he said, bowing slightly to her.

“Morning,” she said, a little breathlessly. “I was hoping for a minute of your time.”

Blackwall should have been wary of this, her renewing their acquaintance so soon after they had agreed to stay apart. But he found he could not feel anything apart from joy at speaking to her again. Her copper curls had been arranged artfully about her face, bringing out the freckles that kissed her cheeks and shoulders, and the gown she wore was a light, elegant green. How he had managed to stand a week away from her company, suddenly he could not say.

“I imagine you can have as many minutes as you like,” Blackwall said. “But do you mind if we sit?” His leg was beginning to protest the exertion, and he did not much feel like collapsing on the village green.

He would have invited her into the vicarage, were she not unchaperoned, but once again she seemed to have slipped the clutches of whoever was charged with watching her. Instead they sat on a circular bench that had been built around an oak tree in the middle of the village, which was as public a spot as was possible. Blackwall hoped that anyone who saw them would be quick to decide that nothing untoward was taking place.

“I know you suggested that we not see each other so often,” Lady Lavellan said, resting her gloved hands in her lap. “But the matter I need to speak with you about is professional, not personal.”

“Oh?” he asked. “You’re not thinking of pursuing the religious life, are you? I’m having trouble picturing you in a convent.”

Lady Lavellan smirked. “I’m not that desperate just yet,” she said. “As it transpires, Clara has gone and gotten herself engaged.”

“Your maid?” Blackwall said. “I didn’t think ladies’ maids were supposed to marry.”

“Strictly speaking, they’re not.” Lady Lavellan attempted an expression of stern disapproval, but could not entirely hide her amusement. “It came as quite a shock, I assure you.”

“Who is she marrying?”

“George, my father’s groom.”

“I imagine Lord Lavellan isn’t too pleased.”

“He is not,” Lady Lavellan said, arching her eyebrows. “But there’s little he can do about it now. Clara, damn her, is free to marry whoever she chooses.”

Blackwall did not miss the implication in her words. He flushed hot at her mention of marriage, shifting a little where he sat. “Was it sudden, this engagement?”

“It seemed so to me,” she said. “But it turns out the two of them have been stepping out together for quite some time. Here was me thinking that Clara was the one keeping my secrets, and all the while she was out having a dalliance of her own. I have to admit, I’m rather jealous.”

“You’ll need me to read the banns, then?” Blackwall asked.

“Yes,” Lady Lavellan said. “And we will need to discuss the wedding plans, too. Clara has no family to speak of, and so that task falls to me.”

“It’s been a while since I’ve done a wedding,” he said. “I can’t pretend to know much about the organising of one, apart from the clerical side.”

“That’s perfect then,” Lady Lavellan said. “I know nothing about the clerical side, and a great deal about planning parties. I believe we will make a fine team, you and I.”

They agreed that Clara and George should come to visit Blackwall at the vicarage the following morning, with Lady Lavellan attending as chaperone. There they would discuss what needed to be done before the ceremony, and Blackwall would formally prepare the banns.

During Blackwall’s apprenticeship he had learned one important thing about having a country livings; if you were prepared for births, deaths and marriages, the rest was mere detail. These were the events around which the life of a village revolved, and parishioners could forgive much else as long as those services were performed competently. So Blackwall had applied himself to learning the correct way to baptise a child, perform a funeral, and carry out a wedding. Until Lady Lavellan had bullied him into producing his own writings, the Book of Common Prayer had taken care of the rest.

Still, he found himself rather nervous about the upcoming nuptials. He had only performed a handful of weddings in his life, and none at all since coming to Thornford. Luckily it was a formal, scripted affair, and only a matter of reminding himself of the words. No, his anxiety was less about the ceremony itself, and more about the time he must spend with Lady Lavellan preparing for it. He was certain she had not contrived her maid’s engagement simply as an excuse to see him — that seemed a little melodramatic, even for her — but it certainly was fortuitous that she had taken such an interest in the minutiae.

Blackwall had received no visitors to the vicarage since coming to Thornford, and the place more resembled a bachelor’s apartment than a clergyman’s home. The woman who came from the village to clean once a week did what she could, but even she did not dare attempt to tackle the great piles of books and papers and other detritus that seemed to be scattered upon every surface of the house.

When he returned home that afternoon Blackwall made a valiant attempt to tidy up the parlour, although this mostly consisted of picking up the various bits of clutter and depositing them in the bedroom. He was horribly conscious of how modest the place would seem, compared to the grandeur of Thornford Hall. The chimney badly needed sweeping, the curtains were dusty, and an uneven table had a volume of psalms stuck beneath one of its legs. Hardly the picture of domesticity.

Blackwall did all he could to make the vicarage presentable until his leg began to ache too much for him to stand, at which point he gave it up for the evening. The thought that Lady Lavellan would be here in the flesh was an odd one, uncomfortable and thrilling in equal measure. Often he had pictured her here; standing behind him while he sat at his writing desk, her fingers brushing his shoulder; reclining in the armchair by the hearth, curls gleaming copper in the firelight; in the bedroom—

Well. She certainly couldn’t enter the bedroom in its current state, and so Blackwall forced himself to put that thought from his mind.

He rose early the following morning, taking more time than usual to dress and trim his beard. If his surroundings were less than presentable, he could at least make the effort with his own appearance. It was not often that he spent much time with his looking-glass, and he was a little dismayed by what he saw there; he could not recall there ever being so much grey in his hair before, nor so many lines around his eyes and on his forehead. Unfortunately those were things that no amount of preening would fix.

Once he was mostly satisfied with his reflection he set out for the village, hoping that the grocer’s on the opposite side of the square would be open already. It was, and after a quarter-hour’s dithering he purchased what he hoped were appropriate refreshments; small biscuits and candied fruit, as well as the most expensive tea the shopkeeper had in stock. In retrospect, it might have been better for him to have employed another’s hospitality for the occasion, but it was far too late for that now. Blackwall returned to the vicarage with his supplies and laid them out the nicest china he could find — that was to say, the three plates he owned without chips in them — then settled in for a tense hour’s waiting.

Lady Lavellan and her charges arrived punctually, a little before ten o’clock, the young servants both decked out in their Sunday best. Clara looked different without her maid’s garb, a little older, though she still not could have been more than twenty-two or -three. Her betrothed was around the same age, a tall, sandy-haired young man who stuttered over his greeting as he shook Blackwall’s hand.

Lady Lavellan watched them make their introductions with the indulgent, long-suffering expression of a mother cat surveying its litter. She seemed to be enjoying playing the role of the bride’s guardian very much. Her dress today was the colour of ivory, and she wore an Indian shawl draped around her shoulders. Gold thread glinted in the fabric, and there was a fine chain of gold around her throat to match. Blackwall spent a moment too long staring at the elegant column of her neck, then, remembering himself, tore his eyes away and invited them all to sit down.

In an odd reversal of roles, Lady Lavellan busied herself pouring tea for everyone while the others sat and talked. They discussed the formal matters first, Blackwall noting down the couple’s names, where they lived, and how long they had lived there. Luckily both parties were lifelong residents of the parish, and so Blackwall would not have to go through the dull process of contacting the vicar of another church to ensure the banns were read there as well. Clara and George struck Blackwall as a well-suited young couple, both mature enough to be certain of their decision.

It shamed him to admit it, but he had never paid much attention to Clara during their previous meetings— given the circumstances, his focus had invariably been elsewhere. But she was a bright and self-assured young woman, plainly-spoken without being impolite. Blackwall could see why she and Lady Lavellan got along so well. George, for his part, clearly adored his betrothed, and did not seem the sort to jilt anyone at the altar. Blackwall found himself growing rather envious of them; they may have no titles, no grand positions, but they were free to love and marry who they chose. It seemed ludicrous, that such a decision could be so simple for some and so painfully complicated for others.

When they had finished with the formalities Lady Lavellan came to join them again. Upon entering the house earlier she had turned in a slow circle, her expression one of mingled curiosity and fascination. It was very possible that the vicarage was the smallest house she had ever set foot in. But she did not seem perturbed by the humble surroundings; the opposite, if anything. She looked quite comfortable now, drinking tea at the worn kitchen table, seemingly unbothered by the poor quality of the china. As though she felt at home there.

“Now,” she said, addressing Clara. “That’s the dull part over. We won’t bore the men by discussing your trousseau, but we must decide what to do for the wedding breakfast.”

“Oh, we weren’t going to bother with that, my Lady,” Clara said. “We’ve a little money saved, but we’d rather put it aside for later.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lady Lavellan said. “You must have a proper celebration, and you needn’t worry about paying for it. I’m sure the family coffers will stretch to one party.”

“That’s very generous, Your Ladyship,” George said. “But we don’t want to put you out—”

“You’ve stolen my maid from under my nose, George,” Lady Lavellan grinned. “I’m afraid you’ve rather put me out already.”

George’s pale cheeks burned with colour then, and he suddenly grew very interested in the plate of biscuits on the table.

“Don’t mind him,” Clara chuckled. “He’s not accustomed to your humour.”

“Few are, Clara.” Lady Lavellan sighed, then set down her teacup and steepled her fingers together. “I’m sure we could have it at the house, if you wanted to. I could probably talk father round if I began today.”

“Begging your pardon,” Clara said. “It’s a kind offer, but I’m not sure we’d be quite comfortable up there. I don’t think I’d feel right, putting on airs like that.”

“You would be most welcome,” Lady Lavellan said. “But I can understand why it might not feel quite correct.” She glanced around the room briefly, as if for inspiration, then turned back to the table. “The weather is likely to be good. We could set something up on the green, if you like. We’ll have tables and food brought down from the house, but you needn’t worry about offending father’s sensibilities.”

Clara looked at George and, seeing him nod, turned back to Lady Lavellan and smiled. “That sounds very fine,” she said. “Very fine indeed.”

“That’s settled, then,” Lady Lavellan said, clapping her hands together. “Now. What on earth are we going to do about clothes, with only three weeks to prepare?”

They talked a while longer, ironing out more details of the day itself, discussing guests and rings and whether there would be music at the breakfast. Lady Lavellan seemed quite in her element, which didn’t surprise Blackwall one whit. She was a bossy sort of woman, and no doubt enjoyed having a project upon which she could oversee every detail. Having little enough to contribute to the talk of dresses and floral arrangements, Blackwall contented himself with watching her. Lady Lavellan was animated when she spoke, the elegant gestures of her hands accentuating each phrase, the corner of her mouth dimpling when she smiled. Though Clara was her social inferior, she did not address her as such. She might have been talking to her own sister, so informal was her speech. It was to be expected, he supposed, that she would find family in strange places, given how little of it she had at home.

Once they had finished planning for the day, Clara and George excused themselves. They were going to visit George’s aunt, they said, but from the giddy expression on Clara’s face and the flush in George’s cheeks Blackwall guessed that they were doing nothing of the sort. He would be surprised if this aunt materialised on the wedding day.

As they could not remain alone in the vicarage, Blackwall and Lady Lavellan stepped outside to wish Clara and George farewell. Once the couple had departed Lady Lavellan turned to Blackwall, an expectant look in her eyes.

“I was hoping you might walk with me a while,” she said.

“Is that a good idea?” he asked.

“Perhaps not,” she said. “But I still want you to.”

Blackwall could not very well turn her down, when she was looking at him like that. “Alright,” he said. “But I shan’t keep you too long.”

“More’s the pity.”

They took a turn around the village green, ostensibly so Lady Lavellan could begin drawing up dining plans in her head. In reality she spoke very little about the wedding at all, and seemed more interested in finding out how Blackwall had been keeping this last week, if he was well, whether he had thought more about the doctor in Eckington.

“I have not,” he said upon that last point. “And neither should you. Planning your maid’s wedding should keep you busy enough, without worrying about my health.”

“I am capable of holding two thoughts in my head at the same time,” she said archly. “No matter what some may believe.”

“I can assure you that I believe nothing of the sort.”

“Good,” Lady Lavellan said. “I could stand you thinking many things of me, but stupidity is not one of them.”

They passed under a stand of trees, the dappled light falling gently onto her face. She looked almost ethereal in that soft, greenish glow, like some fae creature who stole men away to their kingdoms beneath the earth.

“Will you have to hire a new maid?” Blackwall asked, determined to keep their conversation as dull and pragmatic as possible.

“No, thank God,” Tanith said. “George lives in a cottage near the stables, and Clara will join him there once they are married. She will still be close to the house, though not so close as I am accustomed to.”

“Will that be difficult for you?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” she said. “At first, anyway. But I have decided it might be prudent for me to learn how to do some of her tasks for myself. How to dress my own hair, and so on. There may come a time when I am in need of such skills.”

“Oh?” Blackwall said, his heart in his mouth. “And why is that?”

“Circumstances change all the time.” Lady Lavellan’s tone was light, but there was a stiffness in her posture as she strolled along the path. “Who knows what the future will bring?”

Blackwall opened his mouth to respond, but a call from nearby cut him off short. Someone had spoken Lady Lavellan’s name, and both of them turned towards whence the voice had come. A well-dressed young man was approaching them from across the green, smiling openly in their direction. When he reached them he removed his hat, and dropped into a smart bow.

“Good morning,” he said. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

_You are_ , Blackwall thought acidly, eyeing the man’s well-cut clothes, his well-formed features.

“Lord Cavendish,” Lady Lavellan said, her smile a little strained. “It’s a pleasure to see you. May I introduce Mr Blackwall, the vicar of our parish?”

“How do you do, sir?” Lord Cavendish asked, holding out his hand.

Blackwall shook it. The man’s grip was firm and, he was disappointed to discover, his skin was not that of a powdered dandy. There was an air of a military man about him, in the upright way he held himself and his clipped manner of speaking. He reminded Blackwall of every landed officer he had ever met.

“I won’t bother you for too long,” Lord Cavendish said, turning back to Tanith. “Only your father has invited me for dinner again tonight, but he did not say if anyone else would be attending. I’m entirely unsure how I should dress for the evening.”

“Lord Morton and his sister are joining us, I think,” Tanith said. “It won’t be too formal.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” he said. “I should hate to be overdressed.”

Blackwall doubted that very much, given the silver trim on the man’s jacket and the mother-of-pearl buttons on his waistcoat.

“I will see you later then, my Lord,” Lady Lavellan said.

“Indeed you will.” Lord Cavendish bowed again, smiling politely at the both of them. “But I should let you get on with your constitutional. Good morning, my Lady. And to you, sir.”

The young aristocrat left the way he had come, striding across the village green as though he owned it. Blackwall watched him go, a knot of something bitter coiling deep in his gut. Lord Cavendish had not been rude to him — quite the opposite — and yet Blackwall still felt like throttling the man.

“Sorry about that,” Lady Lavellan said, beginning to walk again. “My father never gives anyone clear instructions.”

“Who was that?” Blackwall asked. He had meant the question to be casual, but it came out sounding almost like an accusation.

“Him?” Oh, no one,” she said, waving a hand. “He’s the son of one of father’s friends.”

“Does he come to dinner often?”

“A few times, recently.” Lady Lavellan looked up at Blackwall, her eyes narrowing. “Why? Are you jealous?”

“Horribly,” Blackwall said. “Does that bother you?”

“Not in the slightest,” she said. “In fact, I rather approve.”

“You shouldn’t.” He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I have no claim on you, after all.”

“I think it’s for me to decide who has a claim on me, don’t you?”

“True as that may be,” Blackwall said. “I can’t help but think it would better for you, if you had set your heart on someone like him. Rich, titled. There must be a hundred young lords who would happily take your hand.”

“There are,” Lady Lavellan said. “And that is entirely the problem. A hundred of them, and only one of you.”

Blackwall felt his heart swell in his chest. “You think far too much of me, my Lady.”

“You think far too little of yourself,” she said. “Perhaps that is the problem.”

_If only you knew_ , Blackwall thought. _If only you knew._

They walked together a while longer, and when the bells rang for noon Lady Lavellan took her leave. She would come to the church tomorrow, she said, so that she might begin to consider what flowers would be best for the wedding day. Their agreement to stay apart, it seemed, was all but forgotten, and Blackwall felt no inclination to remind her of it. Being near to her again was like cool water after a long thirst, like a warm fire following rain. He felt pulled into her orbit, drawn to her as a moth is drawn to a candle flame. Undeniable, inexorable. No longer caring if he was burned in the process.

Lady Lavellan walked back in the direction of Thornford Hall, and Blackwall watched her go. The gold of her necklace caught the light, a pole star among the constellations of her freckles. She paused for a moment at the edge of the village green, her body tensing as if she were about to turn back, but Blackwall had averted his eyes before she could catch him staring.

_And if these pleasures may thee move,  
_ _Come live with me, and be my love._


	13. Wisteria

It was an odd morning, the day of Clara’s wedding. Given the circumstances Clara could hardly dress Tanith as she usually did, and so Devorah had given her the loan of Thompson for the day. Lady Adler’s maid was good at her work, but Tanith felt slightly uncomfortable having a relative stranger dress her. She had selected a gown of eau de nil with Van Dyke points at the sleeves and hem, demure enough that it would not draw attention away from the bride. Thompson, who was used to the thick, wavy hair of the Adler women, could not make heads nor tails of Tanith’s mass of curls. Eventually Tanith opted to leave her hair loose, brushing it through as best she could before sweeping it back over her shoulders.

Once she was dressed she went downstairs to check on the preparations for the wedding breakfast. It was a fine day, as she had hoped it would be, bright and still, the perfect weather for an outdoor repaste. The tables had been sent down to the village that morning in the trap, and Mrs Devlin and her kitchen maids were in the process of packing up the food ready for transport. Tanith felt rather proud of what she had achieved, and in such short a time. In the end Lord Lavellan had been less of an obstacle than she had predicted. Perhaps he thought that her taking an interest in the marriage of another spoke to a burgeoning engagement of her own.

Lord Cavendish had become a semi-regular fixture at Thornford Hall, much to Tanith’s chagrin, and she had yet to discover a polite way to make him leave. If he had been a rake she might have used that to her advantage, complained to her father of the faults in his character, but the man was as tediously wholesome as brown bread. Lord Lavellan had even gone so far as to suggest that the young lord attend the wedding with Tanith, but luckily he had arranged to visit friends in Nottingham that week. A fortunate escape, all things considered.

As soon as she was satisfied that all was well underway, Tanith climbed the narrow stairs up to the servants’ quarters in the attic. It was a part of the house she had visited only once or twice before, and it took her several minutes to find Clara’s room. Her knock at the door was answered by Jenny, one of the housemaids, who dropped into a low curtsey as soon as she saw Tanith standing there.

“Your Ladyship, I—”

“No need for that,” Tanith said, breezing into the room. “I’m here as one of the bridal party today, not as your employer.”

Clara was sitting by a little table at the edge of the room, examining her reflection in a looking-glass as she adjusted her hairpins. Unsurprisingly, she had made a fine job of dressing herself for the occasion. Her gown — one of Tanith’s own, altered and retrimmed, since there had been no time to order a new one — was of pure white muslin, and her dark hair was coiled artfully at the back of her head. Tanith felt rather choked upon seeing her, but she swallowed that down quickly.

“My Lady,” Clara said, smiling up at her. “Is everything in order?”

“It certainly is,” Tanith said. “All that’s left is to get you to the church.”

“Still keep having to pinch myself,” Clara said, nearly wriggling in her chair. “Can’t believe I’m really about to get married.”

“No second thoughts?”

Clara shook her head, cheeks colouring prettily. “None, my Lady,” she said. “Do you want me to see to your hair, before we go?”

“Absolutely not,” Tanith said. “It’s your wedding day, Clara, I’ll not have you lift a finger.”

“If you’re sure?”

“I am. Now, if you’re ready, we should head to the village. You don’t want to keep your groom waiting.”

Their bridal party was a small one. Clara, Tanith, and three of the Hall’s other female servants walked down to Thornford together, the maids in particular as giggly as schoolgirls. Tanith, who was approaching thirty years old, felt rather motherly as she watched them gossip and fret over their best clothes. She well recalled being that age, and how giddy she became before every great celebration. They were fond memories, though she did not regret that she was no longer so young and silly. She knew her own mind now, was able to assert who she was and what she wanted. A mixed blessing, certainly, but a blessing nonetheless.

Some of the Lavellan’s servants were already on the village green, laying out tables and chairs and crockery for the wedding breakfast. Tanith stopped to speak to one of them, who fetched something from among the various boxes and bundles that had been brought from the house. Pleased to see that it had survived the journey unscathed, Tanith took it from him and returned to Clara’s side.

“Here,” she said, handing it over. “This will finish things off nicely.”

Clara took the bouquet carefully from Tanith’s hand, her eyes going very wide. “It’s beautiful, my Lady. Thank you.”

It  _ was _ beautiful, if Tanith did say so herself. Cornflowers and forget-me-nots, sprigs of baby’s breath, tied with a trailing vine of ivy. A talisman, as well as an accessory. She had placed fond blessings into every stem, written a message of love and fidelity in her arrangement. It was not what Tanith would have chosen for herself — that would not have been correct — but it suited Clara very well.

“Are you ready?” Tanith asked, resting a hand on Clara’s arm.

“I am not sure I shall ever feel truly ready,” Clara said. “But I suppose that means that there is no point in delaying.”

“Quite right,” Tanith said. “Let us go, then.”

Though her part in the ceremony was quite small, and the guests not very numerous, Tanith still felt her heart flutter as she stepped foot inside the church. The room was bedecked with more of her own arrangements, and drapery of white satin had been hung from the pews and columns. Tanith recognised some of the guests as servants from other houses, as well as a few of her own. There were some others she did not recognise, likely George’s relatives as Clara had none of her own.

George stood at the altar, dressed in clothes that Devorah had borrowed from her sons’ wardrobes, looking far more handsome, Tanith thought, than during their previous acquaintance. The wonder on his face when he laid eyes on Clara was something to behold; absolute love, pure and unselfconscious.

When Tanith mastered herself enough to glance up at Mr Blackwall, standing beside George, she found him looking at her with the selfsame expression. It took a great deal of effort to keep her countenance still, to not blush or lift a hand to her hair. This day was not for her, and she was resolved to keep as inconspicuous as possible. And so she let her gaze fall to the floor, and kept it there as she took her place at Clara’s shoulder.

There was a moment of silence before Mr Blackwall began to speak, broken only by a slight shuffling in the pews. Tanith did not often feel reverent in church, or at least not in the way she was supposed to, but she felt so then. As though suddenly aware that she was part of something larger than herself, more profound.

“Dearly beloved,” Mr Blackwall began. “We are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony…”

The service itself was much the same as any one of the society weddings Tanith had attended. For what was supposed to be the most romantic moment of one’s life, it had always struck her as rather lacking in romance. There was far too much discussion of sin, and judgement, and the evils of fornication. More than once Tanith was forced to bite down hard on the inside of her mouth to keep from laughing.

Despite these moments of humour, Tanith found herself rather overwhelmed when it came time to give Clara away. She squeezed her maid’s shoulder lightly, ignoring the prickle of heat in her eyes, then stepped a respectful distance away as the couple gave their troth. The rings were placed, the proper words were spoken, Mr Blackwall said the usual blessings. This part done, Tanith retreated to the frontmost pew to sit for the remainder of the service.

It was disagreeable to Tanith in some ways, all the talk of spousal obedience and the instructions of saints. But there was one moment that made her pulse quicken. Mr Blackwall had done an admirable job of focusing on George and Clara, for the most part, but once during the service he glanced up and caught Tanith’s eye. He held her gaze as he spoke — not for so long that anyone but her would notice, long enough that she would — before returning his attention to the married couple.

_ Pour upon you the riches of his grace,  _ he had said, while his pale eyes rested on hers. _ Sanctify and bless you, that ye may please him both in body and soul, and live together in holy love unto your lives' end. _

And then, suddenly, it was done. Tanith and the other guests followed the newlyweds outside of the church, where there was much cheering and throwing of flower petals, and Clara looked as happy and as radiant as Tanith had ever seen her.

The Lavellan staff, those who were not in attendance at the service, had done a fine job of preparing the wedding breakfast. Two long tables had been set out along the village green, set with pristine tablecloths and cut-glass and bone china, and bowls of fruit and flowers were arranged at intervals upon their surfaces. The food was cold — anything hot would not have been so after the journey into town — but elegant, and, most importantly, plentiful. If there was one thing Tanith had learned from her experience of previous weddings, it was that they were a hungry business.

Guests were encouraged to sit wherever they chose, except for the chairs set aside for the bride and groom at the head of the table. Tanith sat to Clara’s right, and was disappointed when one of George’s elderly relatives took the empty seat beside her. She had hoped that, after Mr Blackwall had returned from changing out of his vestments, he might sit with her for the meal. Her own fault, really, for being so laissez faire about the seating arrangements. Well, there was nothing to do about it now. She instead helped herself to rolls and preserves, hoping that she would feel a little brighter once she was well-fed.

It was a pleasant celebration, a long, sprawling meal full of gentle chatter and good-natured gossip. Several people made toasts to the bride and groom — with the excellent wine that Tanith had purchased for the occasion — and before long most of the guests were slightly tipsy. Once the cake had been cut they drifted away from the table in twos and threes, laying down blankets on the green or sitting in the shade of the oak tree. Someone had set up pins for a game of quoits, and the unmarried young people in the village were using it as an excuse to flirt with one another, each throw of the rings a performance for some intended beau.

Tanith decided she liked this way of doing weddings rather a lot. The occasion was far less formal than a society marriage, and the guests appeared to be having much more fun. The sight of people sitting on the grass during a wedding would doubtless have sent Lord Lavellan into a fit of apoplexy. He liked things to be done just so, and any deviation from the norm was deemed unsuitable— or, worse, un-English.

His recent machinations had been exhaustingly transparent. Lord Lavellan, who had never shown the slightest inclination towards socialising before, was suddenly inviting guests to dine at Thornford Hall three times a week— and this very often included Lord Cavendish. The young gentleman was always seated next to Tanith, with some taciturn old person placed on her other side. So it was that the two had been forced to converse on many evenings of late, whether Tanith wished to or not.

He was a very nice man. She was certain he would make a fine husband for someone, some day. But not for her.

Tanith had caught sight of Mr Blackwall several times over the course of the day, but had not yet had the opportunity to speak to him. He was sitting very far away during the breakfast, there being no other seats left once he returned from the vicarage, and once their party spread out across the green both of them had been accosted by other guests. George’s female relatives had almost formed a queue to curtsey in front of Tanith, to compliment her on the flowers and the food and the dinner service, as though she had personally crafted all of it. Mr Blackwall had his own gaggle of hangers-on, many of whom seemed to be middle-aged couples. The parents, no doubt, of young men and women whom they hoped to see have weddings of their own very soon.

It was late in the afternoon before Tanith managed to extricate herself from her well-wishers. The sun had sunk a little lower in the sky by then, cooling the air slightly, and the party had taken on a satisfied, languorous air. The younger guests lounged in the grass eating leftover fruit, exchanging words of conversation with one another between bites, while many of the older people in attendance had already left for home. Tanith wandered around the green a while, hoping for a few moments’ conversation with Mr Blackwall, but she could not see him anywhere.

She did find Clara, though, sitting on a blanket with her new husband, and waved to get her attention. Clara stood up and walked over, brushing a few stray pieces of grass from her dress.

“Is everything alright, my Lady?”

“Yes, very well,” Tanith said. “You’re enjoying yourself, I hope?”

Clara beamed. “It’s been wonderful. I don’t know how I can ever begin to thank you.”

“Good, because you do not need to.” Tanith returned her smile, then glanced about the green once more. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Mr Blackwall, by any chance?”

“I saw him walking back towards the church, earlier on.”

“I see,” Tanith said. “Thank you, Clara. I should speak to him before I leave. Make arrangements for— well, I don’t need to bore you.”

An odd look passed over Clara’s face. She opened her mouth, paused, pursed her lips, then spoke. “My Lady,” she said carefully. “I hope you won’t take offence to my speaking plainly.”

“Never,” Tanith said, her brow furrowing. “Please, say what you have to say.”

“It’s only— you’re not leading the vicar to think something untrue, are you?” Clara asked. “He’s a good man, I think. I wouldn’t like to see him hurt.”

“Something untrue such as what?”

“That you might marry him,” Clara said. “He’s in love with you, my Lady, you must see that. And, if I may say so, I suspect that you may love him, too.”

Tanith drew in a slow breath, trying to calm the sudden fluttering in her chest. How perfect, how dangerous it felt to hear those words. “I see,” she said. “And what makes you think such a thing?”

“My Lady, I am not blind.”

“No, you are not,” Tanith said sourly. “Why, then, do you think that I am leading him astray? Are you so convinced that I will not marry him?”

Clara’s dark eyebrows shot up. “Well,” she said. “I mean, you can’t, can you? You’ll be a Marquess one day, and he… would that even be allowed? Would your father allow it?”

“No, my father would most certainly not allow it,” Tanith said, letting out a mirthless laugh. “My father cares very little for my happiness.”

“Do you mean to say— do you intend to marry him, then?”

Well, there was a question.  _ The  _ question, the one that Tanith had been turning over in her mind for weeks now. It was not that she was uncertain whether she wanted to marry Mr Blackwall — she had never wanted anything more, not in all her life — but there were… risks, associated with such a decision. Her father would be furious, of course, and there were many forms his vengeance could take. Certainly he would disinherit her. He might cut her off, too; not only financially, but from the whole of society. Tanith did not doubt that the Adlers, at least, would see her even if she were shunned — those were the sort of people they were, the wonderful fools — but they would ruin themselves in the process, and Tanith could not doom them to such a fate. Lord Lavellan did not, thankfully, have the power to remove Mr Blackwall from his livings, and so at least his home and income were secure. But, Tanith reflected, her father was a powerful man, and he knew the bishop well; she did not doubt that he could manage Mr Blackwall’s expulsion if he so chose.

Did she intend to marry him? Tanith did not know. There was too much at stake for both of them for her to make that decision lightly.

“Do not trouble yourself with my heart,” she said, laying a hand on Clara’s arm. “Not today, when you should be thinking only of your own. Go and see your husband, Clara. I will come and say farewell before I leave.”

Tanith walked back across the village green, past the servants packing up the chairs and tables ready to take back to the house, and made her way towards the church. The door was slightly ajar, and she pushed it open with her fingertips before entering.

Mr Blackwall was standing at the front of the church. His back was to her, and he was looking down at something on the altar. The arrangement of flowers, Tanith realised, that she had instructed be placed there for the ceremony. She made her steps deliberate as she walked up the aisle, ensuring they echoed from the church walls. It would not be fair, she thought, to catch him unawares.

When he heard her coming Mr Blackwall turned, a fraught expression on his face. As she drew closer Tanith could see why; his eyes were rimmed with red, his skin flushed, and he blinked hard as she came to stand beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sniffing slightly. “I was just—”

“The flowers do not agree with you, I assume,” Tanith said. “It is a common malady. I have a cousin who is given over to sneezing all throughout the summer.”

Mr Blackwall gave a weak sort of smile, clearly grateful for her tact.

“The service was very good,” Tanith said.

“It was much the same as any other wedding.”

“True,” she said. “But you did not make it sound dour, as poor Mr Arbuthnot used to.”

“I confess, I have always found the ceremony a little…”

“Puritan?” Tanith asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes,” Mr Blackwall nodded. “Precisely so.” He glanced at the flowers again, then back to her. “You did a wonderful job, putting all of this together. Clara must have been delighted.”

“It was the very least I could do,” Tanith said. “Poor girl. Trailing around after me every day, lacing my dresses and listening to me blather on. I do not envy her.”

“I do.”

Tanith looked up at him in surprise, her lips parting slightly. “You speak very frankly today, sir.”

“I have had a little too much to drink, perhaps. Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

This was, Tanith suspected, merely an excuse to save his pride. She had not seen him touch a drop of wine all afternoon, save for the first toast.

“I think they will be very happy together,” he said. “George and Clara. They are both fine young people.”

“They are,” Tanith agreed. “And I hope they will. Be happy, I mean.”

Mr Blackwall huffed out a laugh. “Some of us should be.”

He turned back to the altar, his expression grave. Tanith’s heart ached for him. He was giving voice to her own sorrows, articulating the very feeling that had laid heavy in her chest all day. It was not that she was not pleased for Clara; she was, incredibly so. But seeing her maid’s contentment had only served as a bitter reminder of her lack of it. She wanted a life where the decision to wed could be so simple, one where she might openly declare her affection without fear of repercussions. It was exhausting, to be so consumed with love and not be able to speak of it.

Mr Blackwall reached out to the arrangement of flowers, his thumb grazing one of the petals. “Talk to me,” he said, not looking up at her. “Tell me what they mean.”  
Tanith took a step forward. She was close enough that her shoulder almost touched his outstretched arm, though they did not meet. Instead she reached out and gestured to each flower in turn.

“Prince’s feather, for unfading love,” she said. “Queen Anne’s Lace for haven and sanctuary. Heliotrope, for devotion. Irises, for hope, and for passion. The fern means sincerity, and fascination, and ‘I dream of thee’.”

“That is quite a selection,” Mr Blackwall said quietly. “A fine blessing, for the newlyweds.”

Tanith shook her head. “I did not make it for them,” she said. “This one, I made for you.”

He said nothing. Only moved his hand over the blossoms, until his fingers brushed against hers. Tanith suddenly could not stand it. She could not bear to be touched so carefully, knowing that this was all there was, all there was ever likely to be.

“It breaks my heart, being near you,” she said, her voice breaking on the words. “It hurts me. I grow so tired of this.”

“I know.” Mr Blackwall laid his hand over hers. “Believe me, I know.”

“And yet we do nothing,” Tanith said. “We subject ourselves to this pain, and make no attempt to change it. Why?”

“Because there is little enough we can do,” he said. “Every day I tell myself it would be better to stay away from you, to give us both a chance at happiness. But I cannot. I am a coward, Lady Lavellan. I am afraid to face a world without you in it.”

Tanith turned to him, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. He looked as wretched as she felt, drawn and weary, the skin around his eyes bruised with lack of sleep. She rested her hand on his arm, took a slow step towards him.

“Come to me,” she said.

The expression on Mr Blackwall’s face was pained. “My Lady,” he said. “We can’t—”

“Just for a moment,” she said. “Just today. No one would begrudge us that.”

Before he could protest she closed the space between them, laying her cheek against his chest as she put her arms around him. Tanith thought he might resist, would grow stiff and wary when she touched him, but he did nothing of the sort. Instead he breathed out a low sigh, drew her closer, his body melting into hers. His hands rested on her back, twining in her curls. She closed her eyes, filled her lungs with the scent of him; starched linen, soft soap, the warm fragrance of his skin. It was a wonder, how perfectly they fit together, though her arms would barely meet around him. She stroked her fingers down the notches of his spine, felt the hitch in his breath where it blew warm against the crown of her skull.

Though they embraced for barely a minute, every second lasted an age. Time seemed to slow for Tanith, to shrink in the space around them. She could hear the pounding of his heart in his chest, a twin to her own, and closed her eyes that she might better listen to it. In all her years she had never felt so utterly content, so perfectly at home.  _ And they two shall be one flesh. _

But, as with all things, it could not last forever. Soon there came the sound of voices, dangerously close to the church door, and the two of them pulled apart almost without thinking. It had become an instinct, to shy away from one another when others were close. As though they were doing something shameful, something that needed to be hidden. Tanith still burned with the warmth of him.

“We should go back,” Mr Blackwall said. “People will talk.”

“And they will say what? That we are lovers?” Tanith laughed bitterly. “If only that were true.”

“You cannot mean that, my Lady.”

“I do,” she said, looking up at him in defiance. “Let it ruin me. No fate could be worse than this.”

The way Mr Blackwall looked at her then almost broke her heart; pain, and regret, and boundless, honest love. “Your whole life would be snatched away,” he said. “I could not live with myself, knowing I was the cause of that.”

“So live with me instead.”

Tanith spoke with desperate, hopeless candour, knowing the futility of her words, not caring. She could not take up with him, could not be his mistress without damning them both to ruin. But it helped, for a moment, to pretend as though she could. To imagine a world where she could go home with him tonight, where they could close the door behind them and be alone, truly alone, for the first time.

“I think I will go back to Thornford Hall,” she said at last, the words tearing themselves from her throat. “It has been a long day, and I am tired.”

“I’m sorry.” Mr Blackwall reached out as if to touch her, then drew his hand away. “You deserve more than what I can give you.”

“And yet I want nothing else.” Tanith sighed, tucking her curls back behind her ears. “Good day, sir.”

She left without looking back, knowing that her resolve would crumble at the sight of his face. Before returning to Thornford Hall she paused to wish Clara and her husband well, and if they noticed a change in her mood they did not comment on it.

Tanith had hoped that the walk would clear her head, but by the time she returned home her thoughts were just as tangled as they had been when she left the village. Her father seemed to be out, for which she was grateful. She did not wish to talk to him, nor to anyone else. Or almost anyone, at least.

The wine and the heat of the afternoon had made her torpid, and she could not stomach the thought of reading, or walking in the garden, or any one of the occupations that would normally take up her time. Instead she retired to her bedchamber, curling up upon the mattress and closing her eyes.

She would be more comfortable, she knew, if she removed her dress and changed into her nightgown. But she could not bring herself to. Not when the fabric still smelled of him, not when the echo of his arms still clung to her. A pale imitation of the real thing, but it was all that she had. Tanith wrapped her arms around herself, buried her face in the pillows, anything, anything to wake the memory of his touch. She might have wept, had she not felt so numb.

The words of the service came back to her, Mr Blackwall’s voice clear in her mind;  _ wilt thou, forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live? _

Yes, she thought. Yes, she quite believed that she would.


	14. Pennyroyal

It was not often, these days, that Blackwall was invited to the various balls and parties held by the county’s gentry. When he had first arrived in Thornford these invitations had been frequent, but, once the lords and ladies of Derbyshire had satisfied their curiosity, they seemed little inclined to include him in their celebrations. This was a mixed blessing. Due to his infirmity Blackwall could not participate in the festivities as others did, standing to talk and dancing for hours on end, and these occasions were often uncomfortable for him. However, Lady Lavellan was invariably present at such gatherings, and often excused herself from the merrymaking to sit and converse with him for a time. This made any discomfort more than worthwhile.

So he was surprised when an envelope arrived for him one Thursday morning, bearing the weight and fine penmanship he associated with society invitations. When he opened it, the missive made more sense; the Duke of Havershire was hosting a ball, and asked him to attend. Her Grace was a good friend of the Adlers, and had always been polite to him in turn. Despite her rank, she was one of the few aristocrats who did not look at him as though he were invisible.

Lady Lavellan would doubtless be there also. The prospect of seeing her filled Blackwall with a conflicting set of emotions; trepidation, guilt, joy. They had barely spoken two words to one another since Clara’s wedding, though their letters had grown more frequent, their contents more urgent. Blackwall knew he was endangering both of them merely by writing to her, but he could not stop himself. It was as he had said to her before; he was a coward. Not brave enough to love her, nor to let her go.

 _I cannot sleep for thinking of you,_ she had written in her last note. _I used to think it preposterous, that longing for someone could make a person mad, but now I do not doubt it. I find myself rehearsing conversations in my head, imagining what you might say to me, and how I might respond. For hours I do this, and barely note that time is passing. Is that not madness, of a kind?_

Perhaps it was. If that was the case, Blackwall was afflicted by the same insanity. He tortured himself with visions of her, memories intertwined with daydreams; the warmth of her breath when she whispered in his ear, the creases around her eyes as she laughed, the way her body had felt in his arms. God, but he should never have allowed her that. If resisting her had been difficult before, it was doubly so with the knowledge he had now. He knew the scent of her hair, the touch of her slender fingers on his back, the perfect softness of her form, and this knowing had all but destroyed him. This was his punishment, for not walking away when he had the chance.

Briefly he entertained the thought of not attending the Duke’s ball, but by the time the day came around he had made his mind up to go. The prospect of seeing Lady Lavellan, of perhaps being able to speak with her about what had happened, was more than he could resist. So he dressed himself as well as he was able to — though, given the quality of his clothes, this was not very well — and paid one of the local farmers to drive him the three miles to Stanwood Abbey.

He had never seen the place before, and when the trap crested the hill he was immediately struck by its grandeur. Thornford Hall was one of the largest and finest houses in the county, or so he had been told, but it appeared modest compared to the Duke’s home. The Abbey had high walls of pale sandstone, and was adorned with pillars and crenellations that appeared to have no practical purpose. There were large windows, already blazing with candlelight despite the early hour, and liveried footmen lined the steps up to the front door. A bronze fountain at the end of the driveway depicted a trio of nymphs, water spilling from the amphoras that they carried. Blackwall found himself rather intimidated by the display of wealth, feeling even shabbier than usual surrounded by such luxury.

The inside of the Abbey was no less decadent. The tastefully papered walls were covered in gilt-framed oil paintings, depicting, Blackwall assumed, the Duke’s esteemed descendents. Sharp-faced, disapproving persons in sumptuous dress peered down on him from every angle, as though judging him for being there. Servants circulated among the crowd with glasses of champagne, and somewhere out of sight a string quartet tuned their instruments. Blackwall accepted a drink and made his way towards the ballroom, the sheer number of people in the corridor slowing his progress to a crawl.

If he had thought the rest of the house grand, the ballroom was certainly the jewel in Stanwood Abbey’s crown. It was a vast chamber, panelled with rich mahogany wainscotting and hung with Venetian mirrors. The plaster coving had been intricately carved with patterns of fruit and flowers, and the crystal chandelier seemed to splinter the candlelight into a thousand points. Blackwall had known that the Duke was rich, but seeing the evidence of her wealth up close forced him to see her from a new perspective. It must be difficult, he thought, to trust in the affection of one’s friends, when there was so much to be gained from one’s friendship.

The Adlers, Blackwall was pleased to see, were already in attendance. It always amused him to see them lined up together, their identical colouring and similar builds marking them immediately out as family. Daniel and the Viscount were with them, his coat of plum brocade matching his wife’s gown so perfectly that it could not be coincidence. The group were sharing a joke of some sort — at David’s expense, perhaps, for he was the only one who was not laughing — and seemed to be having a very pleasant time.

Blackwall wished dearly to go and stand with them, but they were on the far side of the room and his leg was already beginning to ache. Instead he found a low couch set into a little alcove and sat there for a moment, able to see nothing beyond the sea of muslin dresses and tailored coats. Already he was beginning to regret his coming here.

The ball was a formal affair, and each new guest of note was announced by a footman — Blackwall, of course, had been allowed to walk in without so much as a second glance — and the names of various lords and ladies were called out over the babble of the crowd.

“The Earl of Chichester, the Countess Farrow, and the Honourable Edward Farrow.”

“Lord De Vere and Mr Pelham-Finch.”

“Lady Hatherton, Miss Honoria Hatheron, and Master James Hatherton.”

Blackwall could only imagine what the Adlers’ introduction must have sounded like, and quite pitied the poor footman for having to read it all out. It was still strange to him, the rigid formality of the world he now inhabited. When he was younger the aristocracy had seemed as distant as the stars, sometimes visible but further away than he could fathom. In the town where he grew up the local Lord had occasionally passed through on a festival day, waving from his carriage in the middle of the parade, but that was that. Later, in the army, he had known many titled officers, but even the war had not been enough to level their stations. The gentry had still dined in manses and castles, though these were often derelict, while the rank-and-file soldiers sweated and shivered in their bivouacs.

His livings in Thornford placed Blackwall as close as he would ever be to the ton, though it would be foolish to believe himself one of them. Sometimes he was sure they could sense his low birth. It was in the way that they looked at him, the cold, dismissive glances he sometimes received when he passed by one of their number. He was a magpie thrown among doves, and no amount of effort would ever make him fit in.

This thought left Blackwall oddly maudlin. It was not that he desired to be one of the gentry; he had no great admiration for most of them, after all. In fact he found most of their number quite intolerable, foppish and vain and shallow, entirely unaware of the realities and challenges of the real world. He did not consider himself to be less than them, in any way that mattered. But he envied their comfort, and how at home they were in this world. In _her_ world. There was an insurmountable barrier separating him from Lady Lavellan, one which she could not begin to understand the true extent of. He could no more cross it than swim the length of the ocean.

As though Blackwall had summoned her with thought alone, the footman chose that moment to announce her arrival. Hers, and not only hers.

“The Marquess Lavellan,” the footman called, “and Lady Lavellan.”

Blackwall’s stomach sank. Not once since coming to Thornford had he ever known his employer to attend such an event. In fact, Blackwall had not seen hide nor hair of the man since taking up the livings. It seemed to suit them both, to stay away from one another. Each reminded the other of uncomfortable truths, and so it was better that their paths did not cross. But Lord Lavellan was here tonight, along with his daughter. Blackwall’s hopes of speaking to her alone were dashed in a moment. He would not dare to take such a risk with her father present. If the man even suspected their attachment he would quell it, swiftly and permanently. While Blackwall could see no way of pursuing his affection for Lady Lavellan, he did not want it to meet its end at the hands of another. If she broke his heart he would forgive her — thank her, even — but that decision was no one else’s to make.

Ordinarily he would have risen from his seat, gone to stand somewhere where she might see him in the hopes of catching her eye, but tonight he remained where he was. It was already difficult, keeping his feelings in check around her. He was not prepared for the restraint he would have to muster in her father’s presence.

Soon after that the dancing began, and the press of bodies flowed towards the centre of the ballroom like a wave pulled out to sea. Well-dressed young couples joined hands and fluttered their eyelashes at one another, pleased to finally have an excuse to be touching, while the musicians struck up the first bars of the music. Though he had done nothing but sit perfectly still since he arrived, Blackwall was forced to take his handkerchief from his pocket to dab his forehead dry. The warmth of the day, the superfluity of candles and the sheer number of moving bodies had combined to make the room quite unbearably hot. He considered leaving during the set, before anyone had a chance to mark his presence.

Before he could make a quiet exit, however, he heard a familiar voice call his name from nearby. He looked up to see Lady Adler making her way towards him, a glass of champagne in one hand and a rapidly-moving fan in the other.

Blackwall rose and bowed to her, wincing at the pain in his leg. “Good evening, my Lady.”

“Good evening,” Devorah said, a little breathlessly. “Do sit down, sir, that I might join you. It is abominably warm tonight.”

He did so, and Lady Adler came to perch on the couch beside him. Her cheeks were rosier than usual, and there was a light sheen of perspiration on her forehead. She did not seem to be enjoying the ambience any more than he was.

“It is alright for these young people,” Devorah said, “to spend all night in a room that is hotter than the seventh circle. Such a thing might be very fine when one is eighteen, but these days I find it rather intolerable.”

“I quite agree,” Blackwall said. “I can’t imagine how anyone manages to dance in such heat.”

“It is simply youth, I suppose,” she said. “And a great deal of punch.”

“Are your family well?” he asked. “I’m sorry I haven’t been up to Atterwick more often, this past month.”

“They are the same as ever.” Devorah sighed indulgently. “Determined to drive me into an early grave with their quarrelling. I deeply regret not fixing their betrothals at birth, that I might have been free of them sooner.”

Blackwall knew that this was a great falsehood. Lady Adler, for all of her complaining, loved her family very dearly, and would have balked at the idea of any of her children marrying a person they did not love.

“What of you?” she asked, generously turning around so that he would benefit from the cool breeze of her fan. “You look rather out of sorts tonight, if you don’t mind my saying so. Are you unwell?”

“No,” Blackwall said, shaking his head. “I’m starting to think I should have stayed at home tonight. That is all.”

“Well you are more than welcome to come and join us,” Devorah said. “We have managed to claim a pleasant spot near an open window.”

“Thank you, my Lady, but I would not want to bother you.”

“Lady Lavellan is with us.”

Blackwall fought to keep his face still. “I heard she and her father being announced,” he said. “I do not imagine His Lordship will welcome such lowly company.”

“Oh?” Devorah frowned. “I thought the two of you were friends?”

“We served together in the war,” Blackwall clarified. “I would not say that we were friends.”

“I see,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Well, I am more than capable of keeping Lord Lavellan occupied for a time. He may even condescend to dance, if I badger him a little. I am sure Tanith would appreciate your company.”

Unnerving, how much she seemed to know. Blackwall had long-suspected that Devorah had guessed what was happening between him and Lady Lavellan, though she did not say it in so many words.

“That is kind of you,” Blackwall said. “But I will not trouble her. There must be many people here whom she has not seen for some time, and I’m sure she would rather speak to them than to me.”

“I am quite certain she would not,” Devorah said quietly, her eyes serious. “Mr Blackwall, do not think me impertinent, but I believe it is high time that you decided whether to put her out of her misery.”

Blackwall’s heart gave a sickening lurch in his chest. “I— My Lady, I’m not quite sure what you—”

“We are both of us too old to speak in circles,” she said reprovingly. “I had thought, for a while, that you had intentions towards Lady Lavellan. I approved, in fact. But now months have passed, and you have not made the slightest overture towards her. I care for Tanith like a daughter, Mr Blackwall, let me make that much clear. If you have no plans to marry her, I ask that you tell her so, and tell her soon.” Devorah looked out across the room, her features shifting into a pensive frown. “She seems very strong, I know. But do not be deceived, sir. There are parts of that girl that are as soft and fragile as her flowers. She will recover, if you break her heart. But the longer you let this carry on, the harder it will be for her to do so. I’m sure that you do not want that.”

“Of course not,” he breathed. “I am— I have nothing but regard for Lady Lavellan, I assure you. I would never willingly cause her any pain.”

“Good,” Devorah said. “Then you should make matters clear to her soon.” She turned to him, arching her eyebrows. “Unless, of course, you _do_ plan to marry her?”

Blackwall swallowed. “I do not think I have a choice in the matter,” he said. “We are too different, she and I.”

“That is where you are wrong,” she said. “We always have a choice, Mr Blackwall.”

He looked out towards the dancefloor, shaking his head. The heat and the champagne and the shock of Lady Adler’s words had made him careless, loose-tongued. “Even if that were true, it makes no difference,” he said. “I still haven’t a clue what the right decision would be.”

“Consider this,” Devorah said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “When you are old — old enough that matters of wealth and status seem trivial, in the grand scheme of things — which choice will you regret not making, when you had the chance?”

She left him to ponder that, making her way through the crowd and back towards her family. Blackwall sat there for a long time, his champagne going flat and warm in his hand, while he turned over Devorah’s words. It was a shock, hearing her perspective on the matter. She was a member of the gentry— not as well placed as the Lavellans, of course, but still a respectable figure in the ton. Despite this, she seemed willing to encourage his affection for Lady Lavellan. Of course, she did not know the whole truth of things — if she did, her opinion would certainly be different — but that seemed almost irrelevant to the question she had posed him.

_Which choice will you regret not making, when you had the chance?_

For the first time, Blackwall allowed himself to imagine what his life would be like, if he allowed his heart to do the choosing. He had thought of being with Lady Lavellan before, of course, but in abstract ways, free of any narrative or implication; the petal-softness of her lips, her fingers twining in his, the words in her letters spoken aloud. This time he pictured the wholeness of a life with her. There were too many variables, of course, for this idea to be a clear one — he did not know if her father would disown her, if he would be ejected from the parish — but he could paint it in broad strokes.

He would wake up with her each morning, wherever they ended up. She, of course, would be accustomed to sleeping late, and would likely remain dreaming when he rose. Blackwall thought of her opening her eyes, just a crack, that sly, impish smile creeping onto her face. He would kiss her then, and she would coax him to rest a little longer. How their days would be spent, he could not say; only that they would be spent together. If Clara could not remain with them he would learn to do all of the small tasks that the maid had once performed, lacing her stays and dressing her hair and mending her clothes, so that she might not miss the absence of them. They would talk in the evenings, over dinner, her making him laugh with her teasing, and then they would go about their separate tasks. She would arrange flowers at the kitchen table, and as he watched her she would tell him the meaning of every stem, every fragile blossom.

Of all the things that had brought him pain over the last several months, this fantasy was perhaps the worst. He had taken his vague longing and made it real, a tangible, solid idea that he must confront. Lady Adler was right. He could not draw this out any longer, one way or the other. It would destroy them both. All that was left to do was to choose— and he was no closer to making that decision than before.

He needed to speak to her. Lady Lavellan would not remain at her father’s side all night, he was sure, and the room was heaving with people. It would not be difficult, if they were careful, to steal away for a few moments. What he would say to her he did not know yet, but Blackwall felt steadier for having a course of action. He set his glass down on a little table and got to his feet, then began making his way around the room.

It was difficult to see anyone with the crowd as dense as it was, and Lady Lavellan’s stature did not make her an easy woman to spot. Blackwall walked a whole circuit of the room without catching sight of her, though he had been diligent in his search. Perhaps, he thought uneasily, she had already left. He did not know if he could retain this sudden burst of confidence past this evening, and would prefer not to find out.

Blackwall was considering going outside to look for her in the gardens when a flash of copper curls caught his eye. His heartbeat skipped a little as he turned towards it, seeking her out among the press of bodies.

Lady Lavellan was walking out onto the dancefloor, hand in hand with a young gentleman. Her skin was flushed, suggesting that this was not her first dance, and she smiled as she took her place for the first position. Her gown was of sprigged muslin, and her hair had been dressed with tiny white flowers. _Saxifrage_ , Blackwall thought, _for affection_. He had made a study of such things, in recent days.

When the music started and the couples swapped places, Blackwall recognised Tanith’s partner. It was the man they had encountered on the village green some weeks ago— Lord Cavendish, if he recalled the name correctly. The young lord was even more smartly dressed now than he had been then, and there was not a hair on his head out of place. Of all the sins the bible warned against, envy was the one that sat most heavily in the stomach. It made Blackwall want to claw at his skin, to purge the hot, sick upswell of jealousy from his gut.

“Mr Blackwall,” a voice said from nearby. “Good evening.”

Blackwall turned to see Lord Lavellan standing beside him, similarly watching the dancefloor. The Marquess was dressed in his usual sombre fashion, but there was an unusually bright expression on his face. It seemed an ill omen, somehow.

“Your Lordship,” Blackwall said, bowing respectfully. “I hope you’re well.”

“Very well indeed,” Lord Lavellan said. He wore a greedy sort of smile, and sipped at a glass of punch as he spoke. “I’m sorry I’ve not called in, since you took the livings. The estate keeps me very busy.”

“Of course,” Blackwall said. “I understand that.”

“I imagine we will be seeing rather a lot more of one another soon, though.”

“Oh?” Blackwall’s mouth felt suddenly dry. “And why is that, my Lord?”

Lord Lavellan nodded over towards the dancefloor, where his daughter and Lord Cavendish turned in time to the strains of the music.

“I shall be asking you to read the banns, before long,” he said. “Lord Cavendish has asked my permission for Tanith’s hand, and I have granted it.”

Time seemed to slow for a moment. At first Blackwall was certain that he would faint, so hot and close did the air seem then. The gentle murmur of voices and strings became a sharp cacophony, and the lingering taste of champagne turned sour in his mouth. Of course. He had spent weeks agonising over whether he should marry her, whether it was right. Other men would not have tarried so. They would have grasped the opportunity as soon as it arose, knowing that she was not a woman to let slip through one’s fingers. Would it not be more appealing to her, to marry a man who was not cautious with his affection? Who confessed his love and his intentions openly?

“Did you hear me?” Lord Lavellan said, his brow furrowing in irritation.

“Yes, my Lord,” Blackwall said. “That is— that is happy news, I’m sure. And has Lady Lavellan accepted?”

“He has not formally proposed yet,” Lord Lavellan said. “But she will. He is a fine young man, and has paid her all the proper attentions.”

“I’m sure he has, my Lord.”

“I should thank you, actually.”

“And why is that?”

“My daughter has always been… wilful,” Lord Lavellan sighed. “There was a time where I feared it may spell ruin for her. The ton loves to gossip, you see, and Tanith’s behaviour often stoked that fire. Her eligibility was at great risk. But she has become far more respectable, thanks to your influence. I wasn’t sure at first, given— given your _origins_ —” he said this word as though it were distasteful “—but your company seems to have improved her. To be perfectly frank, I am not certain that this proposal would be taking place at all, were it not for you.”

“I see.” Blackwall spoke through gritted teeth. “Well. That is certainly something to celebrate.”

“Indeed it is.” Lord Lavellan clapped him on the shoulder. “And soon you will have the honour of marrying them. A fine end to the story. I must go, I’m afraid. Farewell, sir.”

“Goodbye, my Lord.”

Blackwall barely heard his own words past the blood roaring in his ears. He felt frozen in place, unable to move, unable to breathe. His eyes were still fixed on Lady Lavellan and Lord Cavendish, and he could not tear them away.

The young gentleman moved lightly around the floor, with an easy, confident grace. One hand held hers, while the other rested gently on her back. As Blackwall watched Lady Lavellan said something that made Lord Cavendish laugh, his dark eyes creasing as he smiled at her. There was adoration in that smile. Lady Lavellan returned it, her freckled cheek dimpling as it sometimes did. They made a handsome couple. Both young, both elegant, both flush with wealth. Among all the pairs upon the dancefloor, they were easily the most attractive. Easily the finest match.

This, Blackwall realised with a dull certainty, was the sort of life that Lady Lavellan should be leading. She had known only this, for all of her years; leisure, and privilege, and the society of her peers. Blackwall did not think poorly of himself, but he was not delusional. What did he have to offer a woman like her? An old man, who was no longer in the fullness of health, who would only become poorer once the truth was out. He would drag her into ruin, and once she realised the enormity of her choices there would be no going back.

But he knew, with absolute certainty, that she would choose him if the offer was made. She would choose him, and burn her life to ashes in the process. If he loved her — if he really, truly loved her — he could not allow her to destroy all she had. Perhaps she would marry Lord Cavendish, and perhaps she would not. But if not him there would be other men, other suitors who could give her the life she deserved. It was as Devorah had said. Lady Lavellan’s heart would heal, in time. But only if Blackwall had the courage to break it.

He stood there a while longer, watching her dance with a man who was not him. The candlelight brought a glow to her skin, made her hair shine like copper. Her partner turned her elegantly, his fingers brushing her wrist. Yes, they looked very fine together indeed.

Blackwall waited until the ache in his chest became a physical pain, and he could no longer breathe for the agony of it. Then he turned, and made his way back through the crowd.


	15. Astilbe

Tanith kept her head low as she walked across the green. It was a clear night, and the moon was full overhead, bathing the village in light. Ordinarily she would adore a night such as this one, but today it proved a hindrance. Earlier that evening, while walking down from Thornford Hall, she had passed a couple taking an evening constitutional, and her heart had leapt into her mouth lest they recognise her. The couple, however, barely gave her a second glance. It was strange, and slightly unnerving, to discover how simple it was to move without being recognised. An old cloak of Clara’s with the hood pulled up had been all the disguise that she required.

The walk had seemed to take twice as long as it usually did. Perhaps it was the dark, or the quiet, or the sharp knot of anxiety in Tanith’s chest, but she seemed to walk for miles and miles before finally reaching Thornford village. When she arrived at last she quickened her pace, almost running the last few yards towards her destination.

Once she was there she paused for a moment to catch her breath, then rapped her knuckles hard upon the oak door. When no response was forthcoming she balled her hand into a fist and beat it against the wood, clenching her teeth as pain blossomed in her wrist.

A moment later the door was wrenched open. Mr Blackwall stood in the doorway of the vicarage, his shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbow and his hair tousled. He did not look as though he had been to bed, but his eyes were bleary with sleep. They widened in alarm when he saw Tanith standing before him, alone and unchaperoned.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “My Lady, if you—”

“Let me in,” she snapped, pushing back her hood so anyone walking past might see her face. “Now.”

“You know I can’t do that,” Mr Blackwall said, his expression stricken. “It could ruin you.”

“Only if I am seen,” Tanith said. “Where am I more likely to be seen, sir? Inside your house, or standing in your doorway? Which is more likely to draw attention?”

Blackwall ran a hand through his hair in agitation, then stepped aside and gestured for her to come in. “Very well,” he said. “Quickly.”

Tanith did not need to be told twice. She stepped neatly past him into the vicarage, pulling off her gloves and undoing the fastening of her cloak. Her body was thrumming with anger. This was good. If she was not angry she would surely break down in tears, and that would not do at all.

Without waiting to be invited, she walked through into the parlour. The condition of the room caught her off-guard, and it took her a moment to recover herself. It was only a month or so since she had last been here, but the place was barely recognisable. Every surface was cluttered with detritus, half-empty plates of food and open books laid flat on the table, spools of thread and ink pots and apple cores. There were perhaps a dozen letters on the writing desk, in various stages of completion, and more sheets of paper balled up on the floor nearby. Tanith recognised the flowers on the windowsill; the arrangement she had placed on the church altar for Clara’s wedding, gone brown and wilted.

“You have not been taking care of yourself,” she said, some of her anger melting away.

“Please do not concern yourself with that,” Mr Blackwall said, entering the room behind her. “I beg you, do not.”

In the lamplight Tanith could better see his face, and the sight of him only served to amplify her concern. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and sallow, and both his hair and beard were ragged. He looked as though he had not rested for a week.

“What has happened?” Tanith asked. “Are you unwell? Is that why you have not answered my letters?”

Mr Blackwall stared at her for a long moment, his expression pained. Then he sighed, and gestured to the table. “Perhaps you should sit down.”

Tanith did, the fluttering of her heart growing even more pronounced. This was not at all what she had expected, when she came here. She felt very frightened, suddenly, and very small.

Before he came to join her, Mr Blackwall rummaged around inside a dresser for a while. He returned with two glasses and a half-empty bottle of brandy, setting them on the table and pouring out two large measures before taking the seat beside her.

“You believe I will require strong drink for this conversation,” Tanith said, her voice a little shaky. “That does not bode well.”

“No,” Mr Blackwall said. “I believe I will. It only seemed rude not to share.”

Tanith lifted her glass and took three short sips, the brandy burning like fire in her throat. Then she set it down and faced him, gathering her resolve.

“I came here to ask what on earth is happening,” she said. “One moment you are here, the next… you disappear after services, you do not reply to my letters. When I see you in the village you will barely _look_ at me, let alone speak to me. What have I done to offend you so?”

“Nothing,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Nothing at all. I promise you.”

“ _W_ _hy_ , then?” Tanith asked. “Am I supposed to guess the reason?”

Mr Blackwall shook his head, his eyes falling closed for a moment. “I spoke to your father,” he said. “At the Duke’s ball. He told me that he had granted Lord Cavendish permission to propose.”

Tanith laughed, a wild, high bark of a sound. “That is all?” she said, incredulous. “My father tells a man he may marry me, and you disappear like smoke?”

“You have not accepted his proposal, then?”

“Of course I haven’t!” she said, horrified by the suggestion. “He asked me almost a fortnight ago. I told him that I was flattered by his offer, but that I was in no position to accept. My God, did you honestly think that I would?”

Mr Blackwall looked up at her, his expression one of both pain and gratitude. “I don’t know,” he said. “I didn’t know what to think.”

Relief flooded Tanith’s body in a great, sudden rush, leaving her limbs heavy and trembling. All this time she had been anxious that he had changed his mind, that he had finally grown tired of waiting and spurned her. To know that he believed her engaged, that he withdrew from her company only because of that— it was the first time she had felt able to breathe for weeks.

Tanith lay her hand atop his, where it rested on the edge of the table. “You may think this,” she said. “I will marry no one but you, sir. And I am quite done waiting to be asked.”

Mr Blackwall sat in silence for a moment, his lips slightly parted. “My Lady,” he said, rubbing his free hand across his eyes. “You know I cannot.”

“I have given it a great deal of thought,” Tanith said. “And I believe that you can. Yes, my father will not be pleased. I do not doubt he will threaten to disinherit me. He may even follow through with it. But he would be a fool to snub me for such a minor transgression. Granted, you may not be titled, but you are still a respected man. Not to mention that clergymen are venerated, especially in the country. If my father cut me out for marrying you it would be _he_ who was the subject of scandal, not I. In fact, I believe we would garner a great deal of sympathy.” She smiled, squeezing his hand with her fingers. “We have been thinking about this all wrong, don’t you see? Yes, there might be some talk, but do you really care about such things? I know that I do not. All I know is that I love you. I do not believe there is anything else that matters, in the end.”

For a moment Mr Blackwall only stared at her, his eyes dark and heavy. Tanith could not make sense of his expression. He looked as though she had just handed him the greatest gift in the world, and then plunged a knife into his chest. His hand trembled in hers.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” he said, speaking as though every word cost him a great effort. “I can’t tell you how much I wish it was.”

“It is precisely that simple,” Tanith said gently. “Or it could be, if only you would propose. I’ll even exempt you from getting down on one knee, given your condition.”

Mr Blackwall laughed, though it was a helpless, desperate sort of sound. He pulled his hand free of hers and lifted his brandy glass to his lips, downing half of the amber liquid in a single swallow.

“God, how I love you,” he said. “I sometimes wonder whether this is my punishment. Loving you as greatly as I do.”

A delighted shiver ran the length of Tanith’s spine. This was, she realised, the first time he had said the words out loud.

“It need not be a punishment,” she said. “I think it could be very rewarding indeed.”

Mr Blackwall sat back in his chair. He glanced up at the ceiling briefly, closed his eyes, then took a long, shaking breath. “I tried to write,” he said, “I can’t tell you how many times. It was always my intention to tell you the truth, my Lady, I swear to you it was.”

“The truth about what?” she asked, frowning.

“About why I cannot marry you.”

Tanith froze in her chair. Fear washed over her once more, settling like ice in her stomach. A thousand possibilities raced through her mind, each more disturbing than the last. Was he leaving Thornford, returning to the army? Had he already married, long before coming here?

“Do not leave me in suspense,” she said, her voice cold. “You say you cannot marry me. Tell me why.”

Mr Blackwall was silent for a long time. Then he glanced towards the window, and began to speak. “You know I was in the army, with your father?”

This was not how Tanith had expected his story to begin. “I do,” she said. “Why?”

He poured them both more brandy before continuing, the neck of the bottle rattling against the rim of his glass.

“I was part of the first Light Division,” he said. “Though they didn’t call it that, back then. We worked in smaller groups than the rest of the infantry. Two-dozen men to an officer, sometimes not even that. Your father was in charge of our detachment.”

There was something implied in the words, some truth he had not yet voiced. Tanith searched for it and, finding the thread, pulled. “You were not an officer,” she said. “You are no gentleman, then?”

“No, my Lady, I am not.”

“If that is all there is to the story, you may stop there,” she said. “I always suspected you were not. I assure you it does not change my feelings one whit.”

“That isn’t all,” Mr Blackwall said. “There’s much more, I’m afraid.”

“Well,” Tanith said, folding her arms across her chest. “You had better carry on, then.”

“As I said,” he continued. “Your father was the captain placed in charge of our company. We were sent all over — Spain, Denmark, Portugal — almost three years we travelled together.”

Tanith was surprised by this revelation. She had thought Mr Blackwall and her father mere acquaintances, not men who had fought together for years. It did not seem right to speak, though, and so she remained quiet.

“I can’t say we ever got on,” Mr Blackwall said. “I thought he was pompous, he thought I was coarse. We were both right, in a way. But he was a good captain. Better than some, at least. I followed my orders.” He went quiet for a moment then, his eyes clouding over a little. “We were stationed near Roliça, when it happened. Your father hadn’t been himself for a while. I think it was around the time your mother died, though he said nothing to us.”

Tanith felt suddenly dizzy. To think of Mr Blackwall in Portugal with her father, while she was in London grieving her mother’s death, the ties that bound them together before she even knew of him— it was too overwhelming, she found, to think about closely.

“One night Lord Lavellan ordered our company to capture a village nearby,” he said. “I didn’t like the sound of it, at the time. The place was too close to the French lines. It served no tactical purpose, not that I could see. Your father wasn’t thinking straight, and I told him so, but he wouldn’t back down. So we went.”

Tanith went to swallow and, finding her mouth dry, took a sip of brandy. “And?”

“It was a massacre,” Mr Blackwall said. “The French must have taken the place the day before. They were swarming over the place like ants, four of their men to every one of ours. God, the sound of bayonets in the dark—” He paused, shuddered. “No one got out alive. No one except me, and that was a close thing. I was half dead when they found me. Was sick with a fever for the best part of a week, and by the time I woke up Lord Lavellan had departed for England.”

“Dear God,” Tanith breathed. “He just— _left_?”

“I don’t think you can judge him too harshly for that,” Mr Blackwall said. “The surgeons swore blind I was bound for the grave. What use was there in staying? He went back to be with you, I imagine. I doubt there’s many men who wouldn’t have done as he did.”

“But after he sent you in there…” Tanith trailed off, shaking her head. “He never said a word. Not one. What happened, after that?”

“It was years before I saw him again,” Mr Blackwall said. “We crossed paths in London, by chance. I was— I was not doing well, at the time. There was little work for a soldier who could hardly walk, back in England, and there wasn’t any pension to speak of. I stole, and begged, and drank more than I should. I’m not proud of it. But I’m not ashamed of it, either. There were hundreds of men like me, after the war.”

Tanith knew that this was true. Even now, there were still parts of London where you could see such men begging on the streets. Some of them were missing an arm, or an eye. Many still wore parts of their uniforms, gone grey and ragged with time.

“Your father looked like he’d seen a ghost, when he set eyes on me,” Mr Blackwall continued. “Must have thought I was long dead. Looking back, I think the guilt had been eating away at him for a long time. I can’t see any other reason why he’d do as he did.”

“What did he do?” Tanith asked, fighting to keep her voice level.

“He took me to his house in Mayfair,” Mr Blackwall said. “Your house too, I suppose, though you weren’t there at the time. Had his servants feed me, clean me up, give me a bed to sleep in. Once I’d sobered up we got to talking. He wanted to help me, he said. To make up for what happened in Portugal. Tried to give me money, at first, but I wouldn’t take it. It’s funny how important pride becomes, when you’ve nothing else left.”

As he spoke, Tanith couldn’t help but wonder how she had been spending her time, when Mr Blackwall had been destitute on the streets of London. How many balls had she attended, and dress fittings, and carriage rides, during that time? What pleasures had she partaken in while he suffered? It broke her heart to think of it.

“I didn’t want charity,” he continued. “What I wanted, more than anything, was to feel useful again. But there was hardly any work I could take on, given my condition. No mining, no farming, no dock work. There’s none would hire a servant who couldn’t fetch and carry. It was your father who came up with the clergy idea, in the end. Seemed ridiculous to me, at first, but he talked me round to the wisdom of it.”

“He paid for your education?” Tanith asked.

Blackwall snorted, shook his head. “Not even your father could have gotten me into Cambridge,” he said. “And I never could’ve managed it, anway. Not with my schooling. But Lord Lavellan had connections in other places. He called in some favours, made sure the paperwork was all in place. By the time he was done I had documents for everything you could think of. God knows how much it must have cost him.”

“But— I’ve seen you,” Tanith protested. “In church. You haven’t— sir, I do not understand.”

“Lord Lavellan didn’t bring me here straight away,” he said. “He had a friend in Leicestershire, a curate. Your father had me apprentice with him until the livings here became available. I learned how to carry out services, how to do and say the right things. I became competent at it, after a time.”

“So you are not a vicar?” Tanith asked, her voice shaking. “Clara’s wedding—”

“Was perfectly legal,” he said quickly. “Thanks to your father, under the law I am as much a clergyman as any other. Under God… I cannot say. But Lord Lavellan covers his tracks well. I doubt anyone will ever discover the truth, so long as they do not look too closely.”

A cold, numb sort of feeling had settled over Tanith. She did not feel upset, nor angry; she did not feel anything at all.

“And this is why you believe you cannot marry me?” she said. “Because you are not what you claim to be?”

“Imagine what would happen, if you and I were to marry,” he said quietly. “You are the daughter of a Marquess. The heir to one of the largest estates in the county. If you eloped with me, everyone in society would want to know who I was. And they would find out, one way or another. It isn’t just you who would be ruined, Tanith. If the truth came out, your father would be as well.”

“My father made his own decisions,” she snapped. “If there are consequences, then that is his responsibility and his alone.”

“Please, my Lady, think about what you’re saying,” he said. “Think about what would become of you. I won’t— I _can’t_ put you through that.”

“So there would be a scandal,” Tanith said. “There are scandals in society all the time. You and I would not have to concern ourselves with it. We could leave here, if we wanted to. Go somewhere new. Start again.”

“And do what?” Mr Blackwall asked. He looked exhausted, hopeless. But there was a softness in his eyes, too, when he looked at her. As though she were the most precious thing in the world to him. “Where would we live? How would we feed ourselves? There’s no employer would have me, with my leg the way it is.”

“I could work,” Tanith said, setting her jaw. “I have had a fine education, after all. I’m sure there are plenty of families who would take me as a governess. I could be a schoolmistress, perhaps. Or work as a clerk, or— oh, it doesn’t matter!” She stamped her foot on the floor in frustration. “Why can we not puzzle out the details later? You have told me the truth, and I do not care. Yes, it may complicate things, but it does not change how I feel. I would rather be a pig farmer than spend another day apart from you, Mr Blackwall. I would rather pick oakum, or be a housemaid, than pass my whole life pretending I do not love you.”

“You would do that for me?” he said, his voice heavy with wonder.

“Yes,” she said. “All of it, and more. Whatever it took, if it meant we could be together.”

Mr Blackwall breathed out a low sigh, then reached out to stroke the line of her cheekbone with his thumb. “Beautiful, stubborn girl,” he said. “If I truly thought you would be happy with me, I would never deny you.”

Tanith leaned into the palm of his hand, letting her eyes fall closed for a moment. She did not want this conversation to end. Not if it meant she could stay like this, here, with him, for even a second longer.

“I would be happy,” she said. “We would both be happy.”

“It is an easy thing to believe,” he said. “But you have never been poor, _truly_ poor. The kind where hunger gnaws at your gut and you’ve barely the energy to stand. We would have nothing. It’s easy to believe that love could be enough, when you’ve food in your belly and a roof over your head. But it isn’t. There’s far worse things in this world than a broken heart, my Lady. I won’t damn you to even the _chance_ of that.”

Tanith felt very far away from her body, suddenly. As though she were floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching this scene play out below her. For all she had feared coming here tonight, for all her anxiety, she had never truly believed that this would _end_. It had taken so much time, so much effort to do this, to work up the courage to place her heart in his hands. It had never occurred to her that he might not accept it, once it had been given.

“So that is it, then?” she asked. “After all these months, this is how things end?”

“I’m sorry,” Mr Blackwall said. He took her hand and lifted it to his mouth, pressed his lips to her knuckles. “I’m so sorry, Tanith. So very, very sorry.”

Her traitorous heart still leapt when he spoke her name. So cruel that even now she could love him; could love him, in fact, even more than she had before. She wanted to hate him for rejecting her, for spurning her affections. For lying to her, or at least concealing the full truth. For letting her believe that this was anything but a wasted hope. But she could not. Loving him was intertwined with the very fabric of her being now. It had grown like ivy through every piece of who she was. She could no more hate him than reach out and pluck the moon from the sky.

Tanith felt her eyes prickle with heat, and a moment later felt hot tears sliding down her cheeks. She wept quietly, helplessly, making no endeavour to hide it. What would be the point? Nothing could hurt her now, she thought. Her heart was already broken. There was nothing else left to break.

When Blackwall saw her crying he reached towards her, as if to draw her into his arms, but stopped himself short of touching her. Instead he sat back in his chair, hands twisting furiously in his lap.

“What can I do?” he asked. “There must be— let me do something, to make things up to you. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I want to make this right, if I can.”

“There is only one thing you could do,” Tanith said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “And you have chosen not to do it. Short of that, there is nothing.”

“I want you to know one thing,” he said. “I have been false, Tanith, in many ways. But I have never lied about my feelings. I’m not ending this because I do not love you. I think I might be doomed to love you for the rest of my days.”

“I feel much the same,” Tanith said, getting to her feet. “How stupid, then, that we must be doomed apart.”

She picked up Clara’s cloak from the back of her chair and walked out of the room. Mr Blackwall made no move to follow her as she left the vicarage, did not come after her as she crossed the village green. The whole way back to Thornford Hall she cried, and waited, and listened for a call that did not come. _Any second_ , she told herself. _Any moment now I will hear him shout my name, and all will be well_.

But he did not. When she reached Thornford Hall she looked over her shoulder for the first time, at the moonlit road behind her. It was empty. It was over.


	16. Tuberose

Blackwall sat at his writing desk, looking down at a cream square of card. He had been staring at it for quite some time now; it was good quality, the stock thick and heavy, embossed with two coats of arms. The penmanship was fine, a careful, calligrapher’s hand, the ink a perfect black. How many times he had read the words in the three days since it arrived, Blackwall could not say. Dozens, perhaps. Hundreds. He read it again now, forcing himself to digest each and every word.

_Families, Friends & Well-Wishers  
_ _You are cordially invited to celebrate the engagement of  
_ _Lady Tanith Lavellan  
_ _Daughter of the Marquess Lavellan  
_ _& Lord Charles Cavendish  
_ _Son of the Earl of Gloucester and Lady Marianne Cavendish  
_ _Saturday the fifteenth of August_  
_Seven o’clock  
_ _Thornford Hall, Derbyshire_

Once he had reached the bottom of the invitation Blackwall began again, deliberately forcing his eyes down the lines of sloping script. It was a punitive thing, this reading and re-reading. He might have carved the letters into his arm and had it hurt less.

It was not as though the invitation had come as any great surprise. A little more than two weeks ago Lord Lavellan had knocked on the vicarage door, and, not knowing how to refuse, Blackwall had invited him inside.

“Good God, man,” Lord Lavellan had said when he saw the state of the parlour. “Don’t you have a maid?”

“I do, my Lord,” Blackwall said. “But she has been unwell, recently.”

This was a bare-faced lie. After Lady Lavellan’s visit to his home, Blackwall had given Jane instructions not to come and clean until further notice. After paying her a month in hand he had retreated back to his squalor. He did not wish to see anyone.

“I’ll send one of the housemaids down from Thornford,” Lord Lavellan said, inspecting a chair as though he might sit down in it before changing his mind. “Honestly, sir, you must keep up appearances. If anyone in the village thought— anyway, no matter.” He made a sharp gesture with his hand. “I did not come here to talk about the state of your parlour.”

“What did you come to talk about, my Lord?” Blackwall asked, his gut souring with trepidation.

“It is just as I said.” A smug, self-satisfied sort of smile crept onto Lord Lavellan’s face. “You will need to prepare the banns for my daughter. She gave me a fright there, for a while, but I am pleased to say that she has seen the wisdom in the match. Tanith will be marrying Lord Cavendish three weeks hence.”

How Blackwall kept his countenance for the remainder of that conversation, he could not say. He sat in blank silence while Lord Lavellan gave him the necessary details, scratching out the words on a piece of foolscap. Blackwall would have to write to the curate in Ashchurch, Lord Lavellan said, and soon. He did not want the wedding delayed any further than was necessary, lest his contrary daughter changed her mind.

Since then Blackwall had been moving around in a fog, each day bleeding seamlessly into the next, and his patterns of food and sleep became so sporadic that they no longer punctuated time in any reliable way. He was in shock, he realised. He had seen men so on the Peninsula, after battles or skirmishes gone south. They would sit, blank-eyed and vacant, barely seeming to notice their wounds, unable to form coherent sentences. So Blackwall spent the greater part of those weeks. He sat at the kitchen table for hours at a time, staring down at the marks and scratches in the wood. Not since he had lost the greater use of his leg had he felt so helpless, and even that sharp grief paled in comparison to his feelings now.

The only time he left the vicarage was for services. These, he could not afford to miss. If the vicar was absent on Sundays people would begin to talk, and if any enterprising persons got it into their minds to find out why then his efforts may have all been for naught. Blackwall dragged himself out of bed at the usual time, head aching from brandy and lack of sleep, and made himself as presentable as possible before walking the short distance to the church.

It was something close to torture, seeing her there. Lady Lavellan sat in her usual place near the front of the congregation — her father, now, came along with her — and stared at her lap for the duration of the services. Blackwall kept his eyes averted from her as he read the banns, knowing that if he looked at her something inside him would break, would splinter into a thousand pieces and would not be mended again. Lord Cavendish was not in attendance. Lady Lavellan’s groom-to-be had returned home for a time, to visit his family before the wedding took place. Blackwall supposed he should be grateful for that small mercy.

Whenever he read the line _If any of you know cause or just impediment why these two persons should not be joined together in Holy matrimony, ye are to declare it_ , Blackwall braced himself for an interjection. He waited for Lady Lavellan to call out, to say something in protest, to announce that she could not marry Lord Cavendish after all. But she did not. She sat very still, eyes downcast and spine rigid, and said nothing.

Blackwall had no right to be disappointed. This was, after all, the very thing he had wanted.

Nothing could have prepared him for the void that Lady Lavellan’s absence had left in his life. He had not realised how much time he spent thinking about her, writing to her, walking around the village in the hopes they might cross paths. It hurt to even picture her face now, and so those great swathes of time now lay absent. He missed her, with a cruel, physical ache, one that seemed to reside in his flesh as well as his heart. His injured leg pained him more than usual, and he was much given over to fatigue and tremors of the hands. It was as though something inside him given up entirely, leaving him to weather and crumble like a derelict house.

Almost everything he saw reminded him of her. He could not see pen or paper without remembering the sweet words of her letters; could not walk through the village without seeing some spot where they had paused to talk; could not, now, even sit in his own home without the phantom of her appearing, the echoes of her voice sounding from the walls. And there were flowers. He had never noticed before quite how many flowers there were in the world. Blackthorn growing on the roadside, the carpet of daisies on the village green, dandelions pushing up through cracks in cobblestones. _I have changed radically, love conquers all, wishes come true_. They assaulted him from all sides, whispering their messages in his ear. For the most part he stayed within the four walls of the vicarage, where nothing lived, nothing grew.

Despite this, he chose not to make his apologies for the engagement party, though it would not have been very hard to excuse himself from the event. All it would have taken was some invented sickness, something temporary but catching. No one would dare risk the health of the bride and groom, and so there would be no difficult questions. But, when the sun rose on the fifteenth of August, Blackwall knew that he would go. In part this was due to the same impulse of punishment that led him to read the invitation again and again, squinting by lamplight until his eyes were sore and watering. His other reason was more straightforward— he simply wished to see her.

It seemed important, somehow, that he attend. That others saw him there, observed him acting the dutiful clergyman, paying tribute to the daughter of his employer. As though if others thought this the full truth, Blackwall would somehow come to believe it as well. He could not, after all, avoid her forever. Lady Lavellan and her new husband would live at Thornford Hall, since she was now set to inherit, and Blackwall could not retire from his livings. They would be forced to see one another often, likely for many years to come. He must recover. He had no choice. Not unless he wanted to pass the remainder of his life in misery, consumed with longing for a woman he could not have.

So he groomed and dressed himself carefully that night, not wanting his haggard appearance to draw any stares from the other guests. His reflection appeared stange, in the looking-glass. He seemed much older than he had before, and thinner. Perhaps, he thought, Lady Lavellan’s remaining ardour would cool once she saw him in this sorry state. She would realise the necessity of his decision, would understand what she had escaped by not tying herself to this poor wretch of a man. She might even be relieved. Blackwall tried to find some succour in this prospect, and could not. He did not want her heart to break for him, but the weak, selfish corner of his soul howled at the thought of losing her love entirely. Even now, even though he had cut their ties forever, he could not keep from reaching out after her.

To his surprise, the previous day he had received a note from the Duke of Havershire, offering to take him to Thornford Hall. This made little sense— Stanwood Abbey was on the other side of the Lavellan estate, and she would be coming out of her way to fetch him. Still, Blackwall accepted. The alternative would be to travel with the Adlers, and he could not stand the thought of their careful words, their sympathetic glances. Each of them had attempted to call on him these past two weeks, Devorah more than once, and every time he had made excuses not to let them in. He did not want, or deserve, their pity.

The Duke’s carriage pulled up outside of the vicarage at a quarter to seven, the horses stamping and snorting on the cobbled path. It was a huge, grand contraption, with the Duke’s crossed-arrow heraldry painted on the doors in gold. The coachman climbed down from his seat to let Blackwall into the cab, his expression one of vapid politeness.

The Duke was already sitting in the back, lounging in the well-upholstered seat. Her clothes were well-tailored, her linen pristine, but, as always, there was something vaguely scruffy about her appearance. She moved aside to make room for Blackwall as the carriage wheels began to turn, nodding a greeting.

“Evening,” she said. “Are you well, sir?”

“Fine, thank you,” Blackwall said, though he was nothing of the sort. “And yourself, Your Grace?”

“Much the same,” she said, then turned to stare out of the window.

They travelled without speaking for a while, the only sounds the hollow clopping off the horses’ hooves and the trundling of the wheels below. It was not a comfortable silence, exactly, but Blackwall was grateful for it. He did not want delicate questions about his health, nor bland society chatter. Making any sort of conversation at all would have been challenging just then, given the nerves roiling in his stomach.

The carriage was about halfway to Thornford Hall when the Duke spoke. “One of my coach horses threw a shoe,” she said, apropos of nothing. “Last year. I was on my way to a salon in Weymouth, when it happened. Took the best part of three hours to get to a farrier and have the thing fixed. By the time it was done, there was barely any point in finishing the journey.”

“That must have been irritating for you,” Blackwall said, not entirely sure why she was telling him this anecdote.

The Duke looked at him directly, her sharp blue eyes very serious. “If you want my horse to throw a shoe,” she said, “you need only to say. It is a common misfortune, and no one would give it a second thought.”

She was offering him an out, he realised. An easy excuse not to attend the ball, his absence corroborated by the most well-titled guest in the room. More than that, she had made no comment as to the reason for her suggestion. The Duke was often portrayed as a cad, a person with more money than manners, but Blackwall knew then that this opinion was false. Her Grace was far more tactful than she was given credit for.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Blackwall said. “But thank you.”

“Very well,” the Duke said, looking out of the carriage window once more. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Blackwall considered taking her up on her offer more than once as they drew closer to Thornford Hall. The great house looked cold and stately in the summer twilight, the line of carriages waiting in the driveway striking an odd sort of fear into Blackwall’s heart. What had he been thinking, coming here? How would he manage to pass a whole evening pretending that nothing was wrong, that he was honoured by the prospect of marrying Lady Lavellan to another man?

But it was too late to go back now. He would have to find a way to tolerate it, somehow.

The Duke stayed close to him as they entered the house and made their way through the crowded hallways, her presence a sort of armour. Her wealth and status drew the eye of the other guests, meaning that no one gave him more than a cursory glance. No one would notice how the vicar’s hand trembled around his wineglass, not when the richest bachelorette in the county was standing three feet away. A clever woman, certainly, and quietly thoughtful. No wonder Tevi Adler was so fond of her.

The Adlers themselves were already there, standing in their usual cluster at the edge of the room. Devorah especially looked stricken as the Duke and Blackwall approached, but before she could say anything the Duke had launched into a long story about a mutual friend of the family’s, and all of them were obliged to pause and listen to her out of politeness. When Her Grace’s tale had finished Blackwall muttered his excuses and slipped away into the crowd, not wanting to confront his friends’ compassion just yet.

He looked about the room, both hoping and dreading that he would catch a glimpse of Lady Lavellan, but she was nowhere to be seen. The Marquess was there, dressed in an uncharacteristic shade of green and talking, Blackwall realised with a wave of nausea, to Lord Cavendish. Lady Lavellan’s intended was smartly attired in black and white, and he was smiling politely at his future father-in-law. The man was the picture of gentility and grace, the sort of husband that many eligible ladies of the ton would consider a fine partner.

But Tanith — Lady Lavellan, Blackwall reminded himself, he must stop thinking of her so intimately — had not chosen Lord Cavendish. She had chosen him. In all her fire and courage she had laid her heart bare, had been prepared to sacrifice every privilege she possessed in order to spend her life with him. Even after hearing the truth, even after discovering his deceit, she had not wavered. Most men spent their whole lives without ever knowing such love, such devotion. And yet he had turned her down. He had held everything he desired in the palm of his hand, and decided to throw it away.

This was a foolish line of thought, he knew, self-indulgent and maudlin. The choice he made had been a reasoned one, for both their sakes. Every word he had said to her that night was true. It would be better for her, in the fullness of time, not to damn herself to scandal and poverty in exchange for his hand. Knowing this made it no easier to cope with, however.

Blackwall walked about the room for a while, ignoring the dull pain in his injured leg. While he had only visited to Thornford Hall on two or three occasions, and had never been inside this room, he felt that there was something wrong about it. It took him a long minute to realise what it was that felt so unsettling. It was the flowers. There were vases in nearly every corner of the room, on tables and mantlepieces and windowsills, filling great porcelain bowls and elegant glass flutes. But they were wrong, all wrong. Lady Lavellan’s arrangements were wild, eclectic things, bursting with colour and threaded with meaning. Here there were only perfect white roses, hundreds of the things, each placed with forensic precision.

He heard her voice then, as close as though she were standing right beside him. _The rose is a very obvious flower. Everything about it is right there on the surface, just begging to be seen_. Lady Lavellan was not fond of roses, or at least not the sort of flawless, unvarying bouquets that filled the ballroom tonight. Perhaps Tanith had not chosen the blooms herself, but that did not seem likely. They were deliberate, Blackwall thought, their utter void of meaning a message unto itself. _I feel nothing_.

He had made almost a full circuit of the room by the time he saw her. The crowd parted as the first dance was announced, and suddenly there she was. Making her way towards the centre of the room, her hand resting on her father’s arm, a small, beatific smile on her face. Her gown and gloves were spotless ivory, and her copper curls were were neatly pinned at the nape of her neck. She wore a necklace Blackwall had not seen before, heavy and dripping with diamonds. Lady Lavellan looked poised, and beautiful, and nothing at all like herself. She was as blank and ornamental as the roses that filled the room.

Blackwall found he could not stand to see her like this. It was too unnerving, too devastating, to watch her present herself so. All her vitality, all her passion, smoothed away to nothing. If Blackwall had fallen apart in his heartbreak, Lady Lavellan seemed to have gone the other way entirely. She had masked herself, transforming into the pretty, tractable heiress she had always railed so hard against becoming.

The french windows along one wall were open, leading out onto the terrace. Blackwall walked through them, hoping that the fresh air would calm him somewhat. There were a number of guests enjoying the view of the gardens, though it was not so crowded as inside. None of them seemed to mark his passing, all too busy looking out at the grounds or up at the clouds. There was a thick heat in the atmosphere, a pressure. That summer had been long and dry, unusually hot, and tonight the sky threatened thunder.

Blackwall found a wrought-iron bench that was not yet occupied and sank down onto it, gritting his teeth against the pain in his leg. He should not have walked for so long without resting. It would cause him discomfort all night now, and in the morning it would be a chore even to move. A small regret, in the grand scheme of things. He closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the evening air, perfumed by the jasmine that trailed from a nearby trellis.

His body felt numb, his head thick and sluggish. He was no longer certain that he could withstand this; having to spend the rest of his years seeing her in ballrooms and at church on Sundays, knowing he would never touch her again. It was more than his wretched heart could take.

“Is that you, vicar? Are you well?”

Blackwall opened his eyes to see a tall figure standing in front of him, smoking a cigar. In the fading light it took him a moment to recognise Lord Lavellan’s steward. Nico was frowning at him, his narrow face pinched with concern.

“Yes,” Blackwall said, sitting up straighter. “Just needed some air.”

“As did I,” Nico said. He took a long drag on his cigar and blew the smoke out of his nostrils. “Mind if I join you for a moment?”

Before Blackwall could reply Nico had sat down beside him, lounging back on the bench and crossing his legs.

“Have you seen her?” Nico asked.

Blackwall swallowed, not wanting to have this conversation. “Who?”

“Tanith.” The steward tapped his ash onto the floor, where it was swept away by the night breeze. “Have you seen her?”

“Yes,” Blackwall said stiffly. “We haven’t spoken, though.”

“It isn’t right,” Nico said. “ _She_ isn’t right.”

Blackwall noticed, for the first time, the tension in the other man’s voice. He sounded anxious, almost irritable.

“What do you mean, she isn’t right?”

“You saw her,” Nico said. “I haven’t the faintest clue who that girl is, but it’s not Tanith. She’s not been herself since she got engaged to that great bore of a man. I don’t like it, Mr Blackwall. Not one whit.”

It was a relief, hearing someone else voice the same concerns he himself had felt upon seeing her. Blackwall was not sure, however, how much — if anything — Nico knew of what had passed between him and Lady Lavellan. He chose to err on the side of caution, just in case.

“People often change somewhat when they marry,” he said carefully. “I understand it is quite common.”

“Not her,” Nico said firmly. “Not Tanith. I’ve known her my whole life, did you know that? We grew up together. She’s the closest thing I have to family, for God’s sake. I doubt there’s a soul in the world who knows her better than I do. And I know that she wouldn’t just _change_ like this, not unless something was wrong.”

“Have you asked her?” Blackwall said.

“Yes,” Nico said. “She only tells me that I am being overprotective, and to put it from my mind. She lies to my face, Mr Blackwall! Practically a sister to me, and still she lies. I cannot abide it. I’d call Lord Cavendish out, if only he’d be kind enough to do something wrong.”

“Be that as it may,” Blackwall said, looking out over the gardens. “She has made her decision. There is little anyone can do about that, is there?”

“I suppose not,” Nico sighed. “I only thought— well you’ve been such a good friend to her, this year. She trusts you. I wondered whether you might know anything about it.”

Blackwall felt guilty for lying, so soon after Nico had expressed his frustration with Tanith for doing the selfsame thing, but he could hardly tell the man the truth. “No,” he said. “I can’t say I do.”

“Well, it was worth a try.” Nico dropped his cigar on the floor and crushed it under the heel of his boot, then stood up and stretched. “I’m afraid I have to go. I promised the Sir Roger to Lord Pershore, and I won’t hear the end of it if I’m late.”

“Good evening, sir.”

“And to you.”

Blackwall returned to the ballroom not long after Nico had left. It was almost full dark outside now, and the air was unbearably close. Inside the dancing portion of the evening seemed to be in full swing, and the floor was crowded with young couples. He caught sight of Nico opposite a light-haired young gentleman in red, and watched as the Duke swapped positions with Tevi Adler. The lively music and general atmosphere of merriment felt perverse, somehow. As though this were supposed to be a wake, and not an engagement party. He would not stay much longer, he decided. There was little point in punishing himself more than he already had.

He waited for the dance to end, hoping to catch the Duke and ask whether her coachman might take him back to the village, when a call to attention made everyone in the ballroom fall silent. The dancefloor was cleared, and a smartly-dressed servant in a powdered wig stepped forward to speak to the crowd.

My Lords and Ladies,” he said, his voice clear and strong. “May I present Lady Tanith Lavellan, and her betrothed, Lord Charles Cavendish, to lead in tonight’s waltz.”

Blackwall felt the world lurch around him as Lady Lavellan and her intended walked out onto the floor. They looked perfect together, like a painting, like a prince and princess from a fairytale. But it was wrong, horribly wrong. Nico had been right. This was not the Tanith that Blackwall knew, not the stubborn, teasing, headstrong woman who he loved so greatly. She smiled placidly as Lord Cavendish took her hand, but her gaze was cool and empty.

Though he tried not to, Blackwall could not help but remember when he had danced the waltz with her in the Adlers’ drawing room. How her hand had felt on his shoulder, the way she whispered him through the steps, her forest-coloured eyes fixed on his. They must have looked a strange pair, that night; a clergyman, tall and limping, being led by such a small, well-bred woman. But there had been a rightness to it. Blackwall had been certain, as they walked through the steps together, that they were surely betraying themselves to their audience. And from the knowing looks Devorah and Tevi had given him when he sat down, that had seemed to be the case.

If Tanith shared any of the same passion with Lord Cavendish, Blackwall could see no trace of it, and this was not for lack of searching. He looked hard and closely enough that he thought his heart might tear itself in two. But there was no creasing at the corner of her eyes now, no wrinkle on the bridge of her nose. Her arms were held stiffly, her fingers rigid where they rested on her fiance’s shoulder, and she did not speak a word as they glided faultlessly through the steps. Her heart was not in it at all.

Then Lord Cavendish turned them quarter-circle, and Tanith locked eyes with Blackwall over his shoulder. In an instant, there she was; her ardour, her temper, her spirit, all writ plain as day across her face. Blackwall saw hurt there, in her drawn brows and the curve of her lip, and rage, and the same longing that burned inside his chest. This was the woman he knew, that he loved, loved so much he could barely breathe for the weight of it.

The expression on her face was more than Blackwall could bear. He turned on his heel and left, pushing between the guests without a thought for manners of propriety, only needing to get out, to get away, to put as much distance between himself and Tanith as he could manage. He could not trust himself, being this near to her. He was not strong enough.

There was no time to find the Duke and solicit the use of her carriage. Blackwall left on foot, drawing some odd glances from the footmen who waited by the head of the driveway. He did not know how he would make the journey home, with his leg in as much pain as it was, but just then he didn’t care. All he could do was keep walking, placing one foot in front of the other until Thornford Hall had vanished from the horizon.

He had barely made it to the road when he heard footsteps on the gravel path behind him. Blackwall did not turn around to see which one of his friends had followed him. Whoever it was, he was in no mood to speak to them now.

“Mr Blackwall!”

Tanith’s voice cut sharply across the night. He stopped dead in his tracks, heart reeling in his chest. She should not be here. She should not—

Small fingers gripped at his arm, and he was pulled around with surprising strength. Tanith stood in front of him, breathing hard, her shoulders rigid with anger. There was pure fury in her eyes, in her bared teeth.

“How _dare_ you?” she spat. “How _dare_ you walk out in that way?”

“Lady Lavellan, you shouldn’t be out here without—”

“You are in no position to tell me what I should and should not do, sir.”

There was a sudden, blinding flash as lightning arced across the sky, painting her face in white for the space of a heartbeat. The first clap of thunder followed a moment later, booming low in the middle distance.

“You need to go back inside,” Blackwall said. “Before it rains—”

“Let it,” she said. “I do not care if it rains or snows or starts pelting down hailstones, Mr Blackwall. I asked you a question, and I will not leave until it is answered.”

There would be no arguing with her, no when she was like this. She was incandescent with rage, her eyes burning into his. Blackwall raked a hand through his hair, trying to think, trying to shape his maelstrom of feelings into words.

“I couldn’t stand it,” he said. “Seeing you— seeing you with him. It was too much for me, Tan— my Lady, it was weak of me, I know.”

“You were the architect of this,” Tanith said, her lower lip trembling. “Do not forget that, sir. If it were up to me I would have been marrying you, not him. How dare you play the victim, when it was you who spurned me? When you all but told me to go and marry someone else?”

“I didn’t mean _now_ , Tanith,” he snapped, all the pain and frustration of the last fortnight suddenly spilling over. “I thought that one day you might meet someone, someone you loved enough to marry, and I wanted you to have that freedom. I didn’t think you would pledge yourself to the first man you saw—”

“What does it matter?” she said, her voice breaking on the last word. “How many times must I tell you that I love only you? If you will not have me, why shouldn’t I make a practical marriage? Why shouldn’t I keep my home, and my title, when I have lost everything else?”

Another bolt of lightning threw white light across the landscape, the roll of thunder close at its heels. The air was hot and thick, heavy in Blackwall’s lungs as he looked down at Tanith.

“So you will spend the rest of your life with him?” he asked her. “You will be happy, living out the rest of your days with a man you do not love?”

“Of course I will not be happy!” Tanith cried, laughing helplessly. “I will be miserable, Mr Blackwall, and so will you! That is the choice you made for us. What right have you to criticise my decisions, when you have chosen so poorly?”

“You speak as though it is so easy,” he said. “As though you could never be miserable with me, and never be happy with another—”

“I am not a fool,” she said. “I know it isn’t that simple. But my God, would it not have been a start?

“It would have been a _risk_ ,” he said, taking half a step closer to her. “I love you far too much to gamble with your happiness, Tanith.”

She shook her head, teeth pressed hard against her lip. “Do you truly believe we stand a better chance at happiness, now that we are suffering?”

Blackwall hesitated for a moment. When she had come to the vicarage that night, he had been certain that making this sacrifice was the right choice for both of them. Now, after seeing what had become of her, what had become of himself, he was not so sure.

There was another white flash of light, another crack of thunder.

“You should go inside, Lady Lavellan,” Blackwall said. “Before the weather turns.”

He moved to leave, but before he had taken a step Tanith had grabbed him by the shirtfront. She dragged him back towards her, her wild eyes fixed on his.

“Do not walk away from me,” she said, her voice low. “I won’t allow it. You are _mine_.”

Blackwall could not say whether she leaned up to meet him, or he down to meet her. Perhaps they were both to blame. All he knew was that a moment later her lips were crushed to his, and his arms were around her, and her strong fingers were clutching at his back. He gasped into her mouth, tasting champagne and honey on her tongue, his lip burning where she caught it between her teeth.

The lightning came with the thunder this time, colours coruscating like jewels behind Blackwall’s eyelids. He tangled his fingers in Tanith’s hair, heedless of the pins that jabbed sharply into the flesh of his palm, caring only for the need to touch her, to feel her closer, though the warm curves of her body were already pressed to the length of his.

Her hands grasped at his waist, found the hem of his shirt and tugged it free. She clutched at the skin beneath, dragged fingernails over his ribs, and Blackwall dipped his head to the curve of her throat. He pulled aside the strand of diamonds and kissed her there, his beard rasping against her neck, and was rewarded with a quick, high intake of breath. He could feel her pulse beneath his lips, as light and rapid as a bird’s.

When the first drops of rain fell Blackwall barely noticed them. They landed in his hair, soaked into the fabric of his collar, and still he did not mark them. There was space in his mind for nothing but her. The heat of her tongue in his mouth, the taste of salt on her skin, the way her fingers clawed at his scalp, his hips, the nape of his neck.

He felt drunk on her, consumed by her. For months he had denied himself the only thing he wanted, and now that he had it he could not bear to let go. Nothing had changed. He had still walked away, she was still engaged to another. But in that moment he could not care about such trivialities, any more than he could care about the rain.

“ _Tanith_?”

The call echoed through the night, the single word sending Blackwall crashing down to earth. Recognising the voice, he pulled away from Lady Lavellan and took one stumbling step backwards.

“That’s your father,” he breathed. “Tanith, if he sees us—”

“I don’t care,” she said. “I am not ashamed of it. Or of you.”

The rain was falling heavily now. The water had turned the gravel driveway to a river of mud, already running in grey rivulets around their feet. Tanith was soaked to the skin, her dress nearly ruined. She looked up at Blackwall, curls plastered to her face, and he thought he might die for the love of her.

But Lord Lavellan’s shout had broken whatever spell had been upon him in that wild moment, and doubt had crept in once more. It was one thing, to love her, but quite another to lead her further down this path. Marrying him would ruin her; breaking her engagement to do it, doubly so. Worse still, if they were seen together as they were now, it would no longer be a decision that either of them made for themselves. Propriety would force their hands— propriety, and Tanith’s father.

“ _Tanith? Where are you?_ ”

The second shout strengthened Blackwall’s resolve. There were lanterns moving in the dark now, bobbing spots of light drawing closer by the second. He reached out to cup Tanith’s cheek in his hand — just once, just lightly — then spoke.

“You have to go,” he said. “And so do I.”

“You don’t—”

“I do,” he said, tearing himself away. “Not like this, Tanith. Not like this.”

Blackwall left before Lord Lavellan could find him with her, staggering out into the rain and the blackness. He did not have to turn around to know the expression on her face, the hurt and confusion that would be waiting for him there. Cowardice, again, always cowardice.

He never should have touched her. Should never have allowed himself that weakness, not even for a moment. His skin burned in the path of her fingers, and he could feel bruises waking on his lips. How could he mend his heart now, when his mouth was still raw from kissing her, his back stinging where her nails had scored it?

He could not. That was the answer. Tanith had marked him like territory, claimed him as her own, had damned even his flesh to remember her.

Blackwall wondered whether he would still feel her on his body in a week’s time, when he stood in the church and married her to another.


	17. Ambrosia

“My Lady? My Lady, it’s time to get up.”

Tanith’s eyelids fluttered open, squinting against the morning light. Clara was bent over her bed, a hand resting on her mistress’s shoulder.

“I’ve let you sleep in as long as I can,” Clara said. “But you really must get up now. It’s today.”

A dull weight settled in the pit of Tanith’s stomach. _Her wedding day_. Closing her eyes, she rolled over onto her other side and pulled the covers up to her shoulder. She did not want to get up, to smile sweetly as she was pampered and preened and made ready to give her life away. She wanted to stay here, and sleep, and forget everything outside of this room.

“Tan.” Tevi’s voice this time. “Please get up. We should talk, before the ceremony.”

Tanith buried her face in her pillow, muffling a sigh. Her friend’s concern was touching, but Tanith wished that Tevi would leave well enough alone. It was Tevi who had found Tanith during her engagement party, in the end, when she was coming through a side door in a bid not to be caught by her father. She was crying, soaked to the skin, and Tevi had managed to sneak her upstairs without being seen. Once they were in private Tanith had told her everything, opening the floodgates of her grief and anger at last, and Tevi had hugged her for a long time while Tanith wept on her shoulder.

There had been some lie told, that Tanith had come over unwell and couldn’t return to the party, some convenient untruth to excuse her presence. Her father had a suspicious air at breakfast the next morning, questioning Tanith closely about her sudden illness, so quickly come and gone. The answers Tanith gave him were weak, half-hearted things. She was exhausted, sick of holding everything inside, sick of pretending that her heart was not breaking.

For a while she had considered ending her engagement to Lord Cavendish, even if Mr Blackwall would not have her, but had ultimately decided to stay the course. Charles was kind, and generous, and even made her laugh on occasion. If she had to marry a man she did not love, he seemed a fine choice. She might even come to care for him, in time.

But such thoughts gave her no succour this morning. All she could think of was seeing Mr Blackwall in church, of watching him commit her to a lifetime with another man. She could still remember the night of her engagement ball with crystal clarity; raindrops beating against the gravel, calloused fingers on her skin, lips pressed roughly to her neck. It was one thing, to spend a lifetime wondering what it might have been like to have him. Quite another, now that she knew.

Tanith would have happily slept through the day, the week, the year. But she knew that she could not. Reluctantly she dragged herself out of bed, rubbing her eyes and blinking hard to clear them. Clara and Tevi were there, and Sera too, standing in the corner of the room and watching her like a hawk. If Tevi knew the truth of things, Tanith did not doubt that the Duke did as well. Wonderful. Now her entire bridal party was aware of her suffering.

“There’s tea here, my lady,” Clara said. “May I pour you some?”

“Please, Clara.”

Tanith stood and walked over to her dressing table, her bare feet padding lightly against the carpet. There were white roses on the windowsill, and letters of congratulations on her desk, and a dress of ivory muslin hanging from the back of the door. _The happiest day of my life_ , Tanith thought, wanting to laugh, wanting to cry. She sat down in front of the looking-glass and examined her reflection, finding a face more pale and drawn than she was accustomed to. Sorrow had sucked the life from her, leaving her a thin shadow of herself. Tanith wondered whether soon she would fade away entirely.

“How would you like your hair today, my Lady?” Clara asked, bringing over a steaming cup of tea. “Lady Cabot sent you that mother-of-pearl comb that you liked so much?”

“Dress it however you feel best, Clara,” Tanith said. “I do not care.”

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” Tevi cried suddenly, throwing her hands in the air. “Tanith, please tell me you do not intend to go through with this?”

“Of course I intend to go through with it,” Tanith said, turning around in her chair. “I am engaged to be married, Tevi. This is hardly an event I can decline to attend.”

Tevi’s cheeks were very pink. “So you’ll marry Lord Cavendish then?” she asked. “You’ll commit yourself to be miserable forever, just to make a point?”

“I’m not _making a point_ ,” Tanith frowned. “I’m securing my future. My estate, my title. I have finally settled on a match that my father approves of, and Thornford will remain in my possession. You should be happy for me.”

“Well, I’m not,” Tevi said, folding her arms across her chest. “How can I be happy for you when you are not happy yourself?”

Tanith did not know how to answer that. She turned back to the mirror, hoping that her friends would drop the issue. Yes, she was unhappy. It was likely that she would be unhappy for a long time to come. But eventually she would recover, and when she did there would be other matters to occupy her time; running Thornford Hall, preparing to inherit her father’s land and title. Marriages of convenience were common, even encouraged, among the ton. Why should hers be any different?

“You really don’t have to do this,” Sera said. “People jilt their fiances at the altar all the time. Yes, it’s always a bit of a scandal, but it hardly ever ruins anyone. You can come and stay with me in London till it blows over.”

“Thank you for the kind offer,” Tanith said. “But I’m afraid I will have to decline.”

Tevi made a strangled sound of frustration then, her hands balling into fists at her sides. Then she took Sera by the shoulder and marched her out of the room, slamming the door shut behind them.

“Oh dear,” Tanith said. “I appear to have upset my entire bridal party by insisting I attend my own wedding. That must be a first.”

“I can’t say I blame them, my Lady,” Clara said, catching her eye in the looking-glass. “I don’t like to see you unhappy either. When George and I were married—”

“You and George were free to marry as you chose,” Tanith said. “That is the difference.”

“No one has forced your hand,” Clara said. “If you just—”

“Clara,” Tanith said, letting a note of finality enter her voice. “There are less than two hours until I need to be at the church. I think we should make a start on preparing for it, don’t you?”

Clara sighed, walking over to the cabinet where Tanith’s scarves and hairpieces were kept. “If you say so, my Lady.”

“Yes,” Tanith said, staring flatly at her own reflection. “Yes, I do.”

🎕🎕🎕🎕🎕

It was supposed to be the first thing that he did that morning. Before retiring to bed for another sleepless night Blackwall had resolved that the following day he would put his feelings to rest for good, would take each and every one of her letters and feed them into the fire. It was the only tangible evidence he had of her affection, now that the flowers had wilted away. Disposing of them seemed like an ending; a gesture that would bring this episode to a close.

But, when he had removed the bundle of letters from the drawer of his writing desk, he found he could not do it. He told himself that there would be no harm in reading them again, just once, to help remember that she had loved him. Almost an hour had passed since then, and he was no closer to tossing the pages into the hearth. Blackwall sat at the kitchen table in his shirtsleeves, a dozen of Tanith’s letters laid out in front of him. He needed to get up. Soon he would have to go to the church, to make all ready for the ceremony. But he could not seem to move. Instead he picked up one of the letters at random and read it again, though he already knew the words off by heart.

 _You made me laugh today,_ it said, and Blackwall could almost hear her voice in is ear. _After the service, when you told me about Mr Parry’s problems with his sheep. I cannot remember the last time I laughed so much, or for so long. It is not considered seemly for people like me to express too much mirth— we may titter behind our fans, ideally while fluttering our eyelashes, but that is all. It is one of the things I hate most about my station. I do not fancy that you would mind overmuch, were I to bray like a donkey in your presence._

He set it down, picked up another.

_I worry about you, sometimes. You will not let me send the doctor to see you, you do not take on the servants you would be well entitled to. I do not know whether it is pride, or stubbornness, or both. Perhaps you believe it is more appropriate for a clergyman, to suffer through both pain and poverty, but you have never struck me as a particularly appropriate clergyman. Remember this, sir; I am prouder and more stubborn than you._

Blackwall tossed the letter aside, then leaned his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands. He did not know how he would survive the day. How he could stand there and wed her to someone else, how he could bring himself to do it. Far from becoming more accustomed to the thought, as he had hoped he might, every day that passed instilled more dread in him, more despair. What a fool he had been, to think he could emerge from this unharmed.

Her words had been turning over in his mind from the moment he left her outside Thornford Hall. _Do you truly believe we stand a better chance at happiness, now that we are suffering?_ When he had first spurned her he had thought it the right thing to do, the noble thing to do. He believed he was giving her the chance to escape a future with him, and the paltry amount he had to offer. But as the days had passed he had become less certain of his position. Doubt had turned inexorably to regret, and now there was no time to undo it. It was as Tanith had said; he was the architect of this. The fault lay with him, and now he must suffer the consequences.

He was trying to muster the courage to rise from his chair, to begin the work of the day ahead, when there came a knock at the door. Likely one of the many folk who had materialised in Thornford for the wedding; servants and cooks and florists, friends and relatives and hangers-on, all swarming the village in preparation for the upcoming nuptials.

Blackwall ignored the first knock, and the second, but when the third came he finally went to the door. Whoever his visitor was, it was clear that they would not leave until he answered.

He was surprised, when he opened the door, to find Tevi Adler standing there. Her cheeks were flushed, as though she had come in a great hurry, and she was dressed in a fine suit of clothes. Ready for the wedding, of course, though why she was not with Tanith, Blackwall could not say.

“What is it?” he asked, his mind too thick to manage a formal greeting.

“Can I come in?” Tevi asked. “I need to talk to you.”

“Can’t it wait?” Blackwall said. “I’ve a lot that needs to be done before the wedding—”

“Well that’s precisely it,” she said, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind her ear. “It’s the wedding I need to talk to you about. Sort of. Will you just let me come in, please?”

Blackwall did not have the energy to fight with her. He let her into the vicarage and the two of them entered the parlour, where he swiftly gathered up the letters and returned them to their drawer. Tevi eyed him closely as he did this, her expression inscrutable.

“Well?” Blackwall said, sinking down into his chair. “What did you need to say?”

“I came here because I’m worried about my friend,” she said. “Tanith told me everything, you know. About you, and— about what happened.”

For one, wild moment Blackwall thought that Tevi might have come here to call him out. But then he saw the worry in her eyes, and realised this was unlikely to be so. She was not here to duel him for Tanith’s honour.

“I acted very poorly,” he said. “I’m sorry for that.”

“Poorly is right,” Tevi said, frowning. “Mr Blackwall, you have not known Tanith long. But I have. In ten years I have never seen her so heartbroken. In fact, I’m not sure I have ever seen her heartbroken at all. A season ago I might have thought her incapable of it. But she is _grieving_ , sir. If you saw her this morning you would have thought her preparing for a funeral, not a wedding.”

Blackwall looked up. “You’ve seen her?” he asked. “How is she?”

“Are you not listening to me?” Tevi said impatiently. “She is, thanks to you, in a very sorry state. What were you thinking, toying with her so? Leading her on, letting her believe that you loved her—”

“I do love her,” he said, surprising himself with the sharpness of his tone. “Please, understand that much. If I allowed her to think that I— that this could be anything more, it is only because I was too weak to walk away when I should have done. Believe me, I regret it sorely now.”

“Good. As you should.”

Blackwall sighed, drawing a hand across his eyes. “What was the purpose of your coming here, beyond telling me things I already know?”

“I have tried to talk her out of it,” Tevi said, shifting her weight. “I have told her that she should not marry him. She is in pain, Mr Blackwall, and she seeks to punish herself by salting the wound. But she will not listen to me.”

“You believe she will listen to me?” he asked, incredulous. “I think it likely that she hates me, after all I’ve done to her. If you can’t steer her from this course, I doubt that I can.”

“She does not hate you,” Tevi said. “Not at all. She loves you, sir. Can’t you see that?”

“I do see it,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean she would be happy with me. Not after the damage it would do. Not after everything she would lose.”

“You’re right, of course,” Tevi said. “There’s a chance that she wouldn’t be happy, were she to marry you. But if she marries him, there is no chance of her happiness at all.”

Blackwall allowed her words to sink in for a moment. For the first time, he allowed himself to confront a truth that had been nagging at the back of his mind for weeks, one which he had hoped he might avoid by never looking in its direction; that he had made a terrible, irreparable mistake, and that it was far too late to mend it.

Grief hit him like a punch to the stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. He gripped the edge of the kitchen table to steady himself, trying not to become overwhelmed by the enormity of what he had done. That he could have had a life with her, that they might have been happy together had he not thrown it away— it was too much for him to consider at once. And he had damned her, too, damned her to a loveless marriage, to a life of genteel propriety that ran so contrary to her spirit. He thought of her in the ballroom of Thornford Hall, that obedient, placid woman surrounded by white roses. The memory clawed at his heart.

“What could I possibly say?” he choked out. “It’s too late, Tevi. I’ve left it too late.”

“No you haven’t.” Tevi drew out her pocket watch and frowned at it. “You’ve got… almost an hour and a half. Plenty of time. Besides, the ceremony can hardly go ahead without you.”

“But what do I _say_?” Blackwall repeated, pushing back his chair to rise and pace about the room. “I cannot— I cannot ask anything of her, not now. Not with all I’ve done to her. She has every reason not to listen to me.”

“Be that as it may,” Tevi said, “whatever you say to her will still be a damn sight better than nothing. Please, Mr Blackwall, I beg of you, come with me back to Thornford Hall. Just talk to her. Just _try_ , please. I can’t watch my dearest friend throw her life away, and I doubt that you could bear that either.”

Tevi was right. Blackwall pictured Tanith as he had seen her a hundred times that summer; the way she smiled to herself as she teased him, the stubborn tilt of her chin, how her eyes creased as she laughed, drawing together the freckles on her skin. He saw her lounging barefoot by the lake, her lips red from eating strawberries, saw her elegant hands stripping leaves from the stem of a flower, saw her flushed and beaming as a dance set came to a close. There were other memories, too; her thumb drawing slow circles on his palm, the summer-garden scent of her skin, the heat of her mouth. The thought that the world might lose such a singular creature, that everything that made her who she was could be eroded by cold propriety— it was too great a waste for him to fathom.

“Will she even speak to me?” he asked, running a shaking hand through his hair.

“Mr Blackwall, she will not speak to anyone else.” Tevi looked at him, her expression determined. “Am I to assume that you have seen sense, then? You will come and see her?”

For all his fear, his heart still leaped in his chest. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I will. I’ll try.”

🎕🎕🎕🎕🎕

Her mother had called it the Sunday Garden, or so her father told her. Tanith did not know why. It had been desolate when they moved to Derbyshire from London, the flowerbeds and trellises long-neglected. Since returning to the estate Tanith had seen it brought back to life, the gardeners once again coaxing shoots up through the soil. Now it was a riot of colour, each walkway bordered by plants of every kind, their blossoms and petals bright in the morning sun.

She had wanted to come here one last time, before her life changed. High walls and hedges hid this spot from the rest of the grounds, gave her a private place to think. The flowers here, at her instruction, were different to those in the more public parts of the estate. There were wildflowers scattered in among the cultivated roses, allowed to grow where they would. Tanith’s eyes wandered over the blooms, settling on those that called to her — mourning-bride, forget-me-not, love-lies-bleeding — flowers whose meanings were clear in their names.

She was sitting on a low wall, heedless of how the lichen might stain the perfect ivory of her gown. A cold sort of numbness had settled over her when Clara had finished dressing her for the wedding, when Tanith had caught a glimpse of herself in the looking-glass and seen a stranger there. Perhaps this is how she would bear it. If the day felt as though it were happening to someone else, someone separate from herself, she might get through it without falling apart.

Nico sat beside her, his elbows resting on his knees. He was frowning at a rosebush as though it had done some injury to him, the toe of his boot tapping lightly on the path.

“Do you remember when we were at Chichester?” he asked. “At Lady Birch’s estate?”

“I do,” Tanith said. They had been about seven years old at the time, and were still permitted to play together despite the difference in their stations. The Marchioness Lavellan had been generous, in that area.

“You told me that you wanted to swim in the river,” Nico said. “Even though everyone told you it was too deep, and that you would hurt yourself.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“But you did it anyway. You climbed down the bank when no one was looking, and almost drowned in the current. Your father ruined his best coat dragging you out.”

Tanith smirked at the memory. “God, he was furious. I thought he’d lock me in a tower after that, and never let me out again.”

“He was scared,” Nico said. “Because you were in danger.”

“Nico, why do you bring this up now?”

“To illustrate your biggest fault,” he said. “You are the most stubborn person I have ever met. Once you have your mind set on something you don’t back down, even if it will hurt you. You’ve always been this way. It’s infuriating.”

“What a sweet compliment,” Tanith said flatly, “to give a bride on her wedding day.”

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Tan,” he said. “Don’t go through with this.”

“And I will tell you one more time that I shall.”

“You don’t love him.”

“Nor does he love me,” Tanith said. “It has nothing to do with love.”

“Is that not worrying, for a marriage?”

“Not if the marriage serves a purpose,” she said. “I am securing my future—”

“You are making a point,” Nico snapped, sitting up suddenly. “That’s all this is, Tanith, don’t pretend that it’s not. You’re cutting off your nose to spite your face. Except this time you won’t just be lectured and sent to bed without supper. This is serious, girl. This is your whole life you’re playing with.”

“Why does everyone speak to me as if I were a child?” Tanith said, irritated. “I know what it means to be married, Nico. I am aware that this is not a commitment that I may drop as and when I feel like it. For the first time in my life I am making a decision based on what is sensible, what is _right_ , and all of a sudden everyone seems hell-bent upon stopping me. What would you rather I do?”

“I would rather you decided what it is that you want,” Nico said, a little more gently. “Without considering what others believe is best.”

There were daisies growing up through the gaps in the paving slabs. Tanith plucked one, and began to pull out each tiny petal with her fingernails. _He loves me. He loves me not._

“I made that decision already,” Tanith said quietly. “But it has been made perfectly clear to me that I cannot have what I want. Yes, this is a poor substitute. But it is something.”

Nico sighed. “It breaks my heart to hear you speak so,” he said. “I love you, Tan, you know that. You’re like a sister to me. All I want is for you to be happy.”

“I know that,” she said, looking up at him. “Truly, I do. Please don’t think I don’t appreciate it. It means the world to me, knowing I have you on my side.”

“Always.” Nico put his arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “And if you want me to tell Lord Butter-dish to go and bugger off, all you have to do is say.”

Tanith laughed despite herself. She continued plucking petals from the daisy while Nico stood up and lit a cigar, the pollen staining her fingertips. _He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me._

“You’ve still got an hour of freedom,” Nico said as he paced up the garden path. “Anything you want to do before you…” He trailed off, his eyes widening a little as he looked at something behind Tanith’s shoulder.

Following his gaze, she turned around to see what he was staring at. Her heart skipped wildly when she saw Mr Blackwall standing at the entrance to the garden. He looked as wretched as she felt. His face was drawn, the shirt he wore laced with creases, and his dark hair was in disarray. His hands fidgeted at his sides, as though he hardly knew what to do with his own body.

“I believe that’s my cue to leave,” Nico said quietly. “Unless you’d rather I stay?”

“No.” Tanith shook her head. “No, that won’t be necessary. Thank you.”

Nico tapped off the ash of his cigar and walked away, nodding slightly to the vicar as he passed. Mr Blackwall hesitated where he stood for a moment, then walked a few steps towards her. As he drew closer Tanith saw that the whites of his eyes were webbed with red. _Not sleeping_ , she thought, her chest tightening. _No more than I._

“If you have come to remind me of the rightness of your decision, I do not need to hear it,” Tanith said. She gestured down to her dress, blindingly white in the sun. “As you can see, I have resigned myself to that fact.”

“I have not,” Mr Blackwall said, his voice rough in his throat. “Not at all.”

“What, then?” Tanith began ripping off the petals with increased ferocity, two or three at a time. _He loves me he loves he loves me not loves me loves me not_. “Are you simply determined to make today as difficult for me as possible? Is it not enough that I will have to hear you hand me off to someone else—”

“I’m not here for that,” he said, taking another two steps towards her. “I’m here to— God, Tanith, I hardly know why I’m here. I only know that I can’t stand to see you unhappy.”

Her anger flared, hot and sudden, and she sprang to her feet. “That is very rich coming from you, sir,” she snapped. “You who are the cause of all my unhappiness. ‘I hate to see the house burn’, says the man who set it alight.”

“Tanith, I’ve been a fool.” Mr Blackwall looked down at her, desperation writ large in his face. “I thought what I did was right. I thought that you belonged to a different world, one that I could never be a part of. But I was wrong, love. You live in no one’s world but your own.”

Tanith felt her eyes prickle with heat. No, she could not cry now. She could not let him see her so weak, not again. “We might have made a world together,” she said. “If you had allowed it.”

“I know,” he breathed. “I’m sorry, Tanith. How I wish I’d chosen differently now. How I wish I’d been brave enough to love you.”

“You speak as though you have given up on me.”

“It is difficult not to see it so, when your groom is waiting for you at the church.”

“Let him wait,” she said. “Let him wait forever, if he must. I will not go to the altar knowing I might still have had a chance with you.”

Whether it was fear, or fury, or passion making her bold, Tanith could not say. There seemed nothing left to lose now. She should have fought harder, before, should have stood her ground when she had the chance. This desperate clutching at hope was not dignified, she knew, but just then she did not care. She cared only for the man stood in front of her, for the way she felt when she was with him, for all she knew that they could have if only he would try.

She plucked out the last of the petals, until only the golden centre remained. _He loves me. He loves me not. He loves me._

Mr Blackwall stared at her for a long moment, his eyes unsure, questioning. Then he let out a shaking breath, and lifted his hand to her face. He brushed his knuckles across her cheek, stroked the line of her jaw. “I thought you hated me,” he said. “After all I’ve said, I thought you must.”

“I do,” she said, glaring at him. “Do not believe you have escaped that easily, sir. You are only lucky that I love you far more than I hate you.”

Mr Blackwall let out a quiet, unsteady laugh. “Should I take this to mean that you would still have me?” he asked. “Even now?”

“Yes,” Tanith said, attempting to fight back a smile and failing miserably. “For my sins, even now. Though I feel obliged to point out that you have yet to ask me.”

“To ask you what?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you think, sir? I am dressed for it, after all.”

“Oh. _Oh_.” Mr Blackwall’s cheeks coloured. Then he frowned at her, his brow creasing. “Hold on. Why am I the one who has to ask?”

“I have always pictured it that way,” she said, shrugging. “And besides, you are hardly in a position to negotiate, Mr Blackwall. If I instruct you to propose to me then I recommend that you do it.”

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You have always been a difficult woman to argue with.”

“Quite right.” Tanith lifted her hand to cover his, lacing their fingers together. “You had better get on with it, then.”

“Tanith,” he said. “Will you—”

“Yes.” She cut him off, beaming. “Yes, I will.”

The way that she kissed him then could not have been more different than the furious, desperate embrace that they had shared the night of her engagement ball. It came in a soft rush of relief and gratitude, like letting go of a long-held breath. They melted into one another, her hands resting on his shoulders, the calloused pads of his fingers light at the nape of her neck. The scent of him overlaid the flowers, filling her head, leaving her dizzy. She might have stayed there forever, feeling him smile against her lips.

Eventually she tore herself away, lifting a hand to her mouth as she regained her composure. “Pleasant as that is, we really must be getting on,” she said. “If I am going to escape my own wedding I should probably do it soon.”

“Oh, God.” Blackwall looked suddenly stricken, as though he had forgotten all about the upcoming ceremony. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“If tawdry novels and the scandal sheets are to be believed, I think Scotland is traditional for an elopement.”

“How are we supposed to get there?”

“With help,” she said. “Come on.”

Tanith took him by the hand and led him out of the Sunday Garden, noting to herself how delightful it was to simply do such a thing without worrying over appearances. Nico was waiting outside, along with Tevi and Sera. Clara and David were there too, huddled with the rest of them. They had been talking among themselves, but when Tanith and Mr Blackwall appeared they all turned around expectantly.

“Well?” Tevi asked, grinning as she glanced down at their joined hands.

“I will not be marrying Lord Cavendish today,” Tanith said. “Mr Blackwall and I have discussed the matter, and we have decided that we would much rather elope instead.”

Her friends exploded into a chorus of applause and cheering, and while Tanith had to gesture sharply to make them quiet down she couldn’t help but smile herself.

“There’ll be time for all that later,” she scolded. “Now we must leave for Scotland, though I haven’t a clue what we’ll do once we get there.”

“I’ve an aunt,” Sera said suddenly, “near Dumfries. She’s a spinster, quite eccentric. I don’t doubt that she’d take you in for a while, if I asked her to.”

Tanith snapped her fingers. “Perfect,” she said. “Your Grace, would you be so kind as to write a letter to your aunt and send it up to Scotland ahead of us?”

“Absolutely,” Sera grinned. “You’ll need a carriage to get you there, too. I can take care of that.”

“Thank you.” Tanith dropped into a small curtsey. “And get my trousseau off Lord Cavendish’s coach, if you can manage it.” She turned to Clara. “On that subject, I’ll need different clothes for Scotland. Thick coats, sturdy boots, that sort of thing. Could you pack me another bag?”

“Of course, my Lady,” Clara said, pink-cheeked with excitement.

“Nico, Mr Blackwall will need luggage too,” Tanith said, now feeling quite confident in her mastery of the situation. “You go to the vicarage and handle that. David, see if you can find a way to speak to your mother without being noticed. She will need to manage father once this all comes out.” Mentioning her father made Tanith feel slightly queasy, but she pressed on anyway, turning her attention towards Tevi. “That leaves you to buy us some time.”

“How?” Tevi asked, looking a little shocked.

“I don’t know,” Tanith said. “Go to the church, make something up. Say I’ve been unavoidably delayed but I’ll be there soon. Tell them I have wept so much with joy that I have spoiled my rouge, and now Clara must do it all over again.”

“They’ll never believe that,” Tevi smirked.

“Well say something else then,” Tanith sighed. “You don’t have to be Mrs Radcliffe. Just stop them sending out a search party.”

“Very well,” Tevi said. “I’ll do my best, though I can’t promise it’ll be much.”

“That’s all you can do,” Tanith said. She turned to the rest of her friends, who had been standing patiently while she finished her instructions. “Meet us back here in half an hour, if you can. Go on, quickly now!”

Her friends left in a hurry, calling out promises that they would do as she asked and swiftly. Tanith watched them go with an air of self-satisfaction, pleased with how efficiently she had managed to organise such a short-notice affair. Really, it was quite a shame that she would certainly be disinherited. She would have made a fine Marquess, if she did say so herself.

“Are you always so domineering?” Mr Blackwall asked once they were alone.

“Yes,” Tanith said, smiling sweetly at him. “Always.”

“Good.” He placed his arm around her shoulders, and though he had never done so before it felt like the most natural thing in the world. “You did not say what I should do, for the next half an hour.”

Tanith gave him a thoughtful look, tilting her head to one side as though considering this. “You have been in Thornford almost six months, and have only kissed me twice.” She glanced significantly over to the entrance of the Sunday Garden, that quiet, hidden oasis among the flowers. “I believe half an hour is more than enough time to begin redressing that deficit.”

Sensibly, he did not argue.

🎕🎕🎕🎕🎕

Barely any time seemed to have passed at all when Blackwall heard wheels on the gravel driveway. While he was keen to get away, he couldn’t help but wish that Her Grace had been slightly less efficient. Now that he had discovered what it was like to kiss Tanith without any guilt, he had no desire to stop.

Tanith pulled away from him, laughing as he chased her lips. “We have to go,” she said. Squeezing his hand, she rose to her feet and pulled him up behind her. “If father catches us there will be hell to pay.”

“Do you think he’ll follow us?” Blackwall asked, not enjoying the prospect.

“Maybe,” Tanith said. “If Devorah can’t calm him down. But as long as we reach Gretna before him it hardly matters. What can he do, once we’re already married?”

Blackwall felt his heart flutter at the words. That morning he had thought himself doomed to a life without her, condemned to see her wed to another man. Now it was he who would be her husband, who would get to spend every day in her company. He felt awed by the idea, humbled. That he had come so close to losing her… it did not bear thinking about. And now, he reflected, he did not need to.

They left the privacy of the Sunday Garden, Tanith carefully rearranging her hair and pulling her gloves back onto her hands. There was no hiding the flush in her cheeks, however, nor the new colour in her lips. Blackwall was certain that her friends would not be scandalised by this, however. Given their reaction to the news of the elopement, they would probably be rather pleased.

All five of them were waiting on the driveway, looking very satisfied with themselves. There was a carriage waiting there too, with luggage strapped to the back and four fine bay horses snorting softly at the reins. Tanith’s eyes widened when she saw it.

“That is Lord Cavendish’s coach,” she said, turning to Sera in a panic. “How on earth did you—”

“Everyone has a price,” Sera said, waving her hand dismissively. “The coachman’s was rather reasonable. I didn’t fancy hauling your trousseau off the back, and this seemed the most elegant solution.”

“So now we are to be thieves as well as scandalmongers,” Tanith sighed. “Father will be thrilled.”

“About that,” Tevi said sheepishly. “I don’t think he quite bought my excuses, Tan. He’s already suspicious. Asked me where the vicar was, too.” She glanced at Blackwall. “Sorry.”

“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Tanith said, laying a reassuring hand on her friend’s arm. “He’s a canny old dog. Thank you for trying.”

“Touching as this is, you need to go,” Nico said, tapping his pocket watch. “The wedding is about to start and neither the bride nor the priest have arrived yet. It won’t take too long for them to put two and two together.”

“He’s right,” Blackwall said. “We don’t want to be caught before we’ve even left the village.”

“True,” Tanith nodded. “Let me just say goodbye, first.”

Blackwall hung back while Tanith said fond farewells to her friends, with assurances that she would write the moment they crossed the border. It was heartening, to him, to see how pleased they were for her. She deserved to be surrounded by people who cared about her, who placed her happiness above all else.

Each of them stopped to say goodbye to Blackwall too, shaking his hand or clapping him on the shoulder (and, in Nico’s case, threatening his life should he ever do anything to hurt Tanith). He thanked them all in return, his gratitude to Tevi being particularly sincere.

“Thank you for talking me around, this morning,” he said. “If you hadn’t… well. Thank you.”

“And thank you for coming to your senses just in time,” Tevi said, flashing him a wry smile. “I didn’t fancy watching her mope for the next thirty years. Or you.”

“I’ll find a way to repay you,” Blackwall said. “One day.”

“You can repay me by making haste,” Tevi said, urging him towards the waiting carriage. “If Lord Lavellan strings you up I’ll feel personally responsible.”

Blackwall helped Tanith up into the coach, leaning on her arm as he climbed in behind her. The interior was lavishly decorated, with curtains of intricately woven lace and seats upholstered in wine-coloured satin. There were also flowers; a great arrangement of perfect red roses, filling most of the opposite bench.

“Dear God,” Tanith snorted, a hand flying to her mouth. “Poor thing. He really didn’t know me at all.”

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Blackwall asked. Now that Lord Cavendish was no longer a rival, Blackwall found himself feeling rather sorry for the man.

“Oh, yes,” Tanith said. “Within a week he’ll be surrounded by sympathetic young ladies, all vying to soothe his wounded heart. If anything I have done him quite the favour.”

The carriage bumped to a start then, and Tanith pulled back the curtain to wave goodbye to her friends. Then she sat back in her seat, brushing the road dust from her face.

Blackwall watched her for a moment, still not quite believing his eyes. Tanith looked as beautiful as she always did, though her hair was coming down from its pins and there were stains and scuffs on her ivory dress. More beautiful, he thought, for those flaws. And now he was hers— though, in truth, he had been hers for a long time already.

For months he had longed for her, had imagined a thousand different ways of being with her, and had never once believed it would come to pass. To have her here, close enough to touch, to know that soon he would be able to call her his wife— he did not think he had ever been so happy, that his heart had ever been so full. He reached out to her almost without thinking, stroked his fingers down the freckled skin of her arm.

Tanith looked at him, a wicked gleam in her eyes. “So you have seduced me away from my home and title,” she said, “and damned me to ruin. Are you proud of yourself, sir?”

“Quite proud,” Blackwall said, lifting her hand to his lips. “Though I would argue it was you who did the seducing.”

She frowned in mock-offence. “I am a lady,” she said. “We are the ones scandalously seduced by common soldiers, not the other way around.”

“Yet further proof of your singular character.”

Tanith chuckled, shaking her head. “I know that you worried for me,” she said. “About my fate if I were to marry you. But you have seen today that our love is not all there is. Those people back there love me dearly, and they are growing to love you as well. We will not be allowed to suffer, with such staunch defenders.”

“They’re good people,” Blackwall agreed. “And I’m grateful to them.”

“Oh God,” Tanith cried suddenly, sitting bolt upright in her seat. “We’re passing through the village. We have to, to get to the road. It never occurred to me.”

Blackwall’s stomach gave a sickening lurch. “Do you think we’ll be seen?”

“Possibly.” Tanith said. She leaned forward to bang on the carriage wall, then stood up to speak to the driver. “Sir, would you mind going a little faster?”

There came the sound of flicking reins, and the pace of the horses picked up. Tanith was thrown off balance by the movement and half-fell back into her seat, almost landing in Blackwall’s lap in the process.

“I say,” she grinned, fluttering her eyelashes. “Perhaps there are some benefits to this mode of travel after all.”

Blackwall laughed, his cheeks burning. “Let’s wait until we’re out of Thornford, shall we?”

“Probably for the best.”

Tanith pulled back the curtain to see outside, and Blackwall watched over her shoulder. Familiar sights flashed past, each one of them tied to a memory; the road they had walked down on the way to the cottage hospital, the bench by the oak tree where they had discussed Clara’s wedding, the green where the flower show had taken place. When they drew closer to the church Tanith let out a high yelp, grabbing at Blackwall’s arm.

“Oh no,” she said. “They’re outside. They’re all outside.”

She was right. The wedding guests had crowded together in front of the church, clustered in twos and threes. Blackwall could make out Lord Lavellan and Lord Cavendish among them, and though it was difficult to see with the speed and jolting of the carriage, he was sure that they did not look best pleased.

Then the clattering of hooves drew the crowd’s attention, and Lord Lavellan stepped forward and shouted something indiscernible. Tanith dropped the curtain as though it had burned her, collapsing back into her seat with a shrill little laugh.

“I can’t look,” she said, her voice strangled. “Is he following? Has he gone?”

Blackwall stole a glance out of the window. Lord Lavellan had indeed attempted to chase the carriage, but after a few yards his pace slowed, and he made a furious gesture before running back towards the church.

“He’s turned back for now,” Blackwall said. “But he doesn’t look happy.”

“I should say not,” Tanith said. “Well, there’s little enough we can do about it now. We must simply trust in Devorah’s diplomacy, and hope that he does not go straight for the duelling pistols. Are you a decent shot, by the way?”

“Fairly good.”

“Well that’s something, at least.”

Tanith caught his eye then, and as Blackwall watched her expression changed from worry to delight. Her lips twisted into a smile, and a moment later her shoulders were shaking with barely-suppressed mirth. Soon she was falling about with laughter, eyes watering, clutching at her stomach, her cheeks flushing pink as she struggled to catch her breath.

Her laughter was an infectious thing, and soon Blackwall was in fits of it as well. The whole situation was perfectly ridiculous, ridiculously perfect. He felt as though he had been moving through the rain and the dark for weeks, and finally the sun had broken from between the clouds. The part of him given over to fear and worry was silent— there was nothing, nothing at all, that could be wrong in that moment. Not when Tanith was sitting beside him, clutching desperately at his arm, her eyes bright and joyous as she laughed. Not when he would be blessed with this sight for the rest of his days.

“God, I love you,” he said, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. “You will soon tire of me saying that, I’m sure.”

“Do you intend to say it a lot?”

“Constantly.”

“Well, you had better make the most of it before the novelty wears off.” Tanith smiled, the freckled bridge of her nose creasing. “Though I am sure you will be much the same. I am far more talkative than you, and just now all I wish to speak of is how greatly I love you.”

“I’m certain I can make my peace with it,” Blackwall said. “Marriage is all about sacrifices, or so I’m told.”

Tanith swatted at him. “We are not married yet.”

“No. But we will be.”

A new smile crept onto her face, softer this time. She took his hand, held it gently in her lap. “Yes,” she said. “We will. I do not think any knowledge has ever made me more happy.”

“Nor I.”

Blackwall leaned in to kiss her then, seeking out the petal-softness of her lips. The taste of her, the warmth of her body in his arms, such sensations were new today, unfamiliar. Soon they would become a part of his everyday life, her nearness a constant blessing. That he might speak with her, touch her, kiss her without shame or restriction, that he might wake with her in the mornings and fall asleep with her at night, that he might carry her love and friendship with him through the years— he was certain that no man living had known a happiness such as his.

Through the lace curtains he could see the roadside verges, in tiny fragments and snatches. They were thick with wildflowers, a carpet of life and colour that sprang joyously from the grass. Blackwall recognised some of them — crimson poppies, nodding columbine, stately cornflowers — but could not discern their meanings.

It did not matter. He would learn, in time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's read this far! i hope that the ending was everything you wanted <3
> 
> i'm on twitter at @elfthirst if you want to come and say hi (and solicit the secret, nsfw epilogue that will probably never make it to ao3)
> 
> love you all very much, thank you for indulging my brain worms x


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